VictoriaiHSotip 


.VK>. 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the   last   date  stamped  below 


1  '    1923 


-18  1932 


RIO 


r  .  si 


oiAffiHORMALSCSfc 

UOS  HJiGEliES,  QRls. 


Victorian  ^on^s 


Let  some  one  sing  to  vs;fiq6tfier  move 
The  mmvtes  jfedged  with  nvsic*.- 

TENNY50N 


Victorian  §>onss 

X$rfts-*f -the  Affections 
@@  an6  Mature  @@ 


/  7  8  1  7 

(ftollectcb-  an6-3(llustratc& 
bp-  0£6raun6  *3©  •  Barrett 
wUb-an-$ntro6uction-bp 
(K6mun6«(!Bosse  ©®© 


^ 


ICitric  -38rovon-  an5  •  Company 

^Boston 


Victorian  £on#& 


Inge  low  ;  to  Messrs.  Stone  &  Kimball,  for  songs 
by  Norman  Gale;  to  Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co., 
for  the  use  of  poems  by  Austin  Dob  son  ;  to  Messrs. 
Roberts  Brothers,  for  songs  by  F.  W.  Bourdillon, 
Jean  Ingelow,  and  Sir  Edwin  Arnold ;  and  to 
Lord  Dujferin,  for  permission  to  include  poems 
by  Lady  Dujferin. 

He  also  gratefully  acknowledges  the  permis- 
sion to  include  their  poems  extended  to  him  by 
the  following  authors  :  Austin  Dob  son,  Hamilton 
Aide',  Aubrey  de  Vere,  Joseph  Skipsey,  Sir 
Edwin  Arnold,  Norman  Gale,  Michael  Field, 
F.  W.  Bourdillon,  and  the  late  Sir  Frederick 
Locker-Lampson ;  and  to  Edmund  Gosse,  who 
kindly  consented  to  write  the  Introduction. 


c 


ONTENTS m 


Where  are  the  songs  I  used  to  know  ? 

Christina  Rossui  i  I. 

AIDE1,    HAMILTON    (1S30).  page 

Remember  or  Forget 3 

Oh,  Let  Me  Dream 6 

Love,  the  Pilgrim 7 

ALLINGHAM,    WILLIAM  (1S24-1SS9). 

Lovely  Mary  Donnelly 9 

Song 13 

Serenade 14 

Across  the  Sea 16 

ARNOLD,    SIR   EDWIN  (1S32). 

Serenade 18 

A  Love  Song  of  Henki  Quatre 20 

vii 


Victorian  ^cmg^. 


ASHE,    THOMAS    (1836-18S9).  page 

No  and  Yes 22 

At  Altenahr 23 

Marit 24 

AUSTIN,    ALFRED   (1835). 

A  Night  in  June 26 

BEDDOES,    THOMAS    LOVELL   (1803-1S49). 

Dream-Pedlary    30 

Song  from  the  Ship 33 

Song 34 

Song 35 

Song,  by  Two  Voices 36 

Song 38 

BENNETT,    WILLIAM    COX    (1820). 

Cradle  Song ...  39 

My  Roses  blossom  the  Whole  Year  Round      .  4r 

Cradle  Song 4J 

BOURDILLON,  F.  W.  (1852). 

Love's  Meinie 43 

The  Night  has  a  Thousand  Eyes 44 

A  Lost  Voice 45 

BUCHANAN,  ROBERT  (1S41). 

Serenade 46 

Song 48 

COLLINS,  MORTIMER  (1827-1876). 

To  F.  C 49 

A  Game  of  Chess 50 

multum  in  parvo 52 

Violets  at  Home 53 

My  Thrush 54 

viii 


Content?'. 


CRAIK,  DINAH  MARIA  MULOCK  (1826-18S7).  page 

/  Too  Late 56 

\  Silly  Song 5$ 

PARLEY,  GEORGE  (1795-1S46). 

May  Day 60 

I've  been  Roaming 62 

Sylvia's  Song 63 

Serenade 64 

DE  TABLEY,  LORD  (1S35). 

A  Winter  Sketch 66 

The  Second  Madrigal 69 

DE  VERE,  AUBREY  (17S8-1846). 

Song 7° 

Song 72 

Song 74 

DICKENS,   CHARLES  (1812-1870). 

The  Ivy  Green 75 

DOBSON,  AUSTIN  (1S40). 

^-  The  Ladies  of  St.  James's 77 

The  Milkmaid Si 

DOMETT,  ALFRED  (1811-1S87). 

A  Glee  for  Winter 84 

A  Kiss 86 

DUFFERIN,  LADY  (1S07-1S67). 

Song SS 

Lament  ok  the  Irish  Emigrant 90 

FIELD,  MICHAEL. 

Winds  To-day  are  Large  and  Free 94 

Let  as  Wreathe  the  Mighty  Cup 96 

Where  Winds  abound 97 

ix 


Victorian  £ong& 


GALE,  NORMAN  (1862).  page 

A  Song 98 

Song 99 

GOSSE,  EDMUND  (1849). 

Song  for  the  Lute 101 

HOOD,  THOMAS  (1798-1845). 

Ballad 102 

Song 104 

I  Remember,  I  Remember 106 

Ballad 108 

Song "o 

HOUGHTON,  LORD  (RICHARD    MONCKTON    MILNES) 
(1809-1885). 

The  Brookside m 

The  Venetian  Serenade 113 

From  Love  and  Nature 115 

INGELOW,  JEAN  (1830). 

—    The  Long  White  Seam 116 

Love IJ8 

Sweet  is  Childhood 120 

KINGSLEY,  CHARLES  (1819-1875). 

Airly  Beacon 121 

The  Sands  of  Dee 122 

Three  Fishers  went  Sailing 124 

A  Farewell I26 

LANDOR,  WALTER  SAVAGE  (1775-1864)- 

Rose  Aylmer I27 

Rubies I28 

The  Fault  is  not  Mine 129 

Under  the  Lindens 13° 

x 


Contents. 


LANDOR,    WALTER    SAVAGE  (continued).  page 

Sixteen 131 

[anthe 132 

One  Lovely  Name 133 

Forsaken 133 

LOCKER-LAMPSON,  FREDERICK  (1821-1895). 

A  Garden  Lyric 134 

The  Cuckoo 137 

Gertrude's  Necklace 139 

LOVER,  SAMUEL  (1797-iSfiS). 

The  Angel's  Whisper 141 

What  will  you  do,  Love? 143 

MACKAY,  CHARLES  (1814-1889). 

I  Love  my  Love 145 

0  Ye  Tears! 147 

MAHONEY,  FRANCIS   (1S05-1S66). 

The  Bells  of  Shandun 149 

MASSEY,   GERALD  (182S). 

Song 153 

O'SHAUGHNESSY,  ARTHUR  (1844-1881). 

A  Love  Symphony 156 

1  made  Another  Garden 158 

FROCTER,  ADELAIDE  ANNE  (1825-1864). 

The  Lust  Chord 160 

Sent  to  Heaven 162 

PROCTER,  B.  W.  (BARRY  CORNWALL)  (17S7-1S74)- 

The  Poet's  Song  to  his  Wife 165 

A  Petition  to  Time 167 

A  Bacchanalian  Song 168 


XI 


Victorian  £cm0£. 


PROCTER,    B.    W.    {continued).  page 

She  was  not  Fair  nor  Full  of  Grace    .    .    .  170 

The  Sea-King 172 

A  Serenade 174 

King  Death 176 

Sit  Down,  Sad  Soul 17S 

^/  A  Drinking  Song 180 

Peace!     What  do  Tears  Avail? 1S2 

„The  Sea 1S4 


ROSSETTI,  CHRISTINA  G.  (1S30-1895). 

Song 1S6 

Song 18S 

Song 189 

Three  Seasons 190 

ROSSETTI,  DANTE  GABRIEL  (182S-1SS2). 

A  Little  While 191 

Sudden  Light 193 

Three  Shadows 194 

SCOTT,  WILLIAM  BELL  (1812-1890). 

Parting  and  Meeting  Again 196 

SKIPSEY,  JOSEPH  (1S32). 

A  Merry  Bee 198 

The  Songstress 199 

The  Violet  and  the  Rose 200 

STERRY,  J.  ASHBY. 

Regrets 201 

Daisy's  Dimples 203 

A  Lover's  Lullaby 204 


Xll 


\ 


♦Contents. 


SWINBURNE,  ALGERNON   CHARLES  (1S37).  page 

A  Match 205 

Rondel 20S 

Sunt. 209 

TENNYSON,  ALFRED  (1S09-1892). 

^  The  Bugle  Song 210 

Break,  Break,  Break 212 

Tears,  Idle  Teaks 213 

Sweet  and  Low 215 

Turn,  Fortune,  Turn  thy  Wheel 216 

Vivien's  Song 217 

THACKERAY,  WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE  (1S11-1S63). 

At  the  Church  Gate 21S 

The  Mahogany  Tree 220 

THORNBURY,  GEORGE  WALTER  (1828-1876). 

Dayrise  and  Sunset 223 

The  Three  Troopers 225 

The  Cuckoo 228 


An  Indea'Io 

#    FlP5T 


%'w 


A  baby  was  sleeping 

"  A  cup  for  hope  !  "  she  said  .     . 
A  golden  bee  a-cometh    ... 
A  little  shadow  makes  the  sunrise  sad 
A  little  while  a  little  love     .... 
A  thousand  voices  fill  my  ears      .     . 
Across  the  grass  I  see  her  pass    .     . 
Ah,  what  avails  the  sceptered  race!  . 
Airly  Beacon,  Airly  Beacon      .     .     . 
All  glorious  as  the  Rainbow's  birth 
All  through  the  sultry  hours  of  June 
Along  the  garden  ways  just  new 

Although  I  enter  not 

rtrude  skipt  from  babe  to  j;irl 
As  I  came  round  the  harbor  bui 
Awake  !  —  The  starry  midnight  1  l"iir  />'•  "  '.  Prot  ter  {Barry  Cornwall)     174 
Awake  thee,  my  Lady-love  ! George  Barley      ...       64 


Listen  —  Songs  thou  It  hear 
Through  the  wide  world  ringing. 

Barry  Cornwall. 

pagb 

Samuel  Lover       .     .     .  141 

Christina  G.  Rossetti   .  190 

Joseph  Skipsey      .     .     .  198 

Mortimer  Collins      .     .  52 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  igt 

F.  II'.  Bottrdillou     .     .  45 

A  ustin  Dobson      .     .     .  8 1 

II  'alter  Savage  Landor  \  27 

Charles  Kingsley      .     .  121 

Gerald  Massey     .     .     ■  151 

Mortimer  Collins      .     .  54 

Arthur  O' Shaughnessy  156 

William  Makepeace    Thackeray  21S 

Frederick  LocKer-Lampson  1  |g 

Jean  Ingelow  .     .     .     .  116 


XV 


Victorian  £cmg£. 


PAGE 

Back  flies  my  soul  to  other  years      ....     Joseph  Skipsey     .     .     .  199 

Break,  break,  break Alfred  Tennyson      .     .  212 

Came,  on  a  Sabbath  noon,  my  sweet      .     .     .      Thomas  Ashe  ....  23 

Christmas  is  here William  Makep-ace   Thackeray  220 

Come,  rosy  Day  ! Sir  Edwin  A  mold .     .  20 

Come  sing,  Come  sing,  of  the  great  Sea-King     B.  W.  Procter  (Barry 

Cornwall )  1  72 
Could  ye  come  back  to  me,  Douglas,  Douglas      Dinah  Maria  Mulock 

Craik  56 

Drink,  and  fill  the  night  with  mirth  !  B.  W.  Procter  (Barry  Cornwall)  180 

Every  day  a  Pilgrim,  blindfold Hamilton  Aide    ...  7 

Fast  falls  the  snow,  O  lady  mine       ....     Mortimer  Collins      .     .  49 

First  the  fine,  faint,  dreamy  motion       .     .     .     Norman  Gale  ....  98 

Hence,  rude  Winter!   crabbed  old  fellow  .     .     Alfred  Domett     ...  84 

How  many  Summers,  love  .     .     .      B.  W.  Procter  (Barry  Cornwall)  165 

How  many  times  do  I  love  thee,  dear  ?      .     .      Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes  38 

I  bring  a  garland  for  your  head Edmund  Gosse     .     .     .  101 

I  had  a  Message  to  send  her Adelaide  Anne  Procter  162 

I  have  been  here  before Dante  Gabriel  Kosseiti  193 

I  leaned  out  of  window,  I  smelt  the  white  clover   Jean  Ingelow   .     .     .  118 

I  looked  and  saw  your  eyes Dante  Gabriel   Rossetti  194 

I  made  another  garden,  yea Arthur  O' ' Sha-ughnessy  158 

I  remember,  I  remember Thomas  Hood      .     . 

I  sat  beside  the  streamlet Hamilton  Aide    .     . 

1  wandered  by  the  brook-side Lord  Houghton    .     . 

I  walked  in  the  lonesome  evening     ....     William  Allingham 

If  I  could  choose  my  paradise Thomas  Ashe  .     .     . 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  is  ...     .     Algernon  Charles  Swinburne  205 

If  there  were  dreams  to  sell Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes  30 

I  'm  sitting  on  the  stile,  Mary Lady  Duffcrin      ...  90 

In  Clementina's  artless  mien Walter  Savage  Landor  131 

In  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  if  Love  be  ours   .     Alfred  Tennyson      .     .  217 

Into  the  Devil  tavern George  Walter  Thornbury  225 

It  was  not  in  the  winter Thomas  Hood      .     .     .  102 

I  've  been  roaming  I     I  've  been  roaming  !      .     George  Darley      ...  62 


I06 

3 
1 1 1 

10 

22 


XVI 


Onticr  to  j-irsit  Ifmcs. 


P  VGB 

King  Death  was  .1  rare  old  fellow  I     B.  W.  Procter  [Barry  Cornwall)  i;'> 

r  hair  I  sat  against  her  feet .    .                 Charles  Swinburne  20S 

'  in  this  night  of  June Alfred  Austin.     .    .    . 

time  I  parted  from  my  Dear     ....     William  Bell  Scott  .     . 
i  wreathe  the  mighty  cup Michael  Field .     .     .     ■ 

Little  dimples  so  sweet  and  soft ?.  Ashby  Sterry  .     ■ 

Lullaby  I    O  lullaby! William  Cox  Bennett   ■  r 

Lute  !  breathe  thy  lowest  in  my  Lady's  ear  .    Sir  Edwin  Arnold  .    .  iS 

Mirror  your  sweet  eyes  in  mine,  love    .    .    .     J.  Ashby  Sterry  .     .    .  ■    1 

Mother,  I  can  not  mind  my  wheel    ....     Walter  Savage  Landor  133 
My  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to  give  you       Charles  Kingsley       .     ■ 

M.  goblet's  golden  lips  are  dry Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes  34 

My  love,  on  a  fair  May  morning Thomas  Ashe  .     ...  24 

Mv  roses  blossom  the  whole  year  round  .     .     William  Cox  Bennett   .  4' 

O  f,>r  the  look  of  those  pure  gray  eyes  .     .     .     J.  Ashby  Sterry  .     .     .  201 

( )  happy  buds  of  violet  ! Vortimer  Collins     .     .  53 

"  (  1  Heart,  my  heart !  "  she  said,  and  heard  Dinah  Marin  Muloch  Craih  58 

O  lady,  leave  thy  silken  thread Thomas  Hood      ...  104 

0  lips  that  mine  have  grown  into     .     .    Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

.  e  is  like  the  roses Robert  Buchanan      .     .  (8 

0  May,  thou  art  a  merry  time George  Darley     ...  60 

O  roses  for  the  flush  of  youth Christina  G.  RossetH    ■ 

O  spirit  of  the  .Summertime  ! William  A llingham      .  13 

:e.irs!    <>  yc  tearsl    that  have  long  refused 

to  flow .     Charles  Afackay  ...  147 

Often  I  have  heard  it  said Wal                ge  Landor  128 

Oh,  a  dainty  plant  is  the  Ivy  green  .    .    .    .     Charles  Pickens    ...  75 

Oh,  hearing  sleep,  and  sleeping  hear  .     .    .     William  A  llingham     .  14 

let  me  dream  of  happy  days  gone  by          Hamilton  Aide     ...  6 

Oh,  lovely  Mary  1  tonnelly,  my  joy,  my  only  best  !     //  'illiam  A  llingham  ■> 

••  1  ih.  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home"     .     I  •'■  tries  Kingsley      .     ■  12 

One  lovely  name  adorns  my  song     ....     Walter  Savage  Landor  133 

Peace  !  what  can  tears  avail?      .    .  B.  W.  Procter  (Barry  Cornwall)  1 

Seated  one  day  at  the  Organ Adelaide  Anne  Procter  t6o 

Seek  not  the  tree  of  silkiest  bark Aubrey  de  V»r*    ...  72 

xvii 


Victorian  £ong& 


PAGE 

She  was  not  fair,  nor  full  of  grace   .  B.  W.  Procter  {Barry  Cornwall)  170 

She 's  up  and  gone,  the  graceless  Girl  .     .     .     Thomas  Hood      .     .     .  108 

Sing!  —  Who  sings B.  W.  Procter  {Barry  Cornwall)  168 

Sit  down,  sad  soul,  and  count  .     .      B    W.  Procter  {Barry  Cornwall)  178 

Sleep  sweet,  beloved  one,  sleep  sweet  !     .     .     Robert  Buchanan      .     .  46 

Sleep  !  the  bird  is  in  its  nest William  Cox  Bennett 

Softly,  O  midnight  Hours  ! Aubrey  de  V ere    .     . 


39 
70 

Strew  not  earth  with  empty  stars      ....     Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes      35 

215 

120 

86 


Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low Alfred  Tennyson 

Sweet  is  childhood  —  childhood 's  over     .     .  Jean  higelcnv  .     . 

Sweet  mouth  !     O  let  me  take Alfred  Domett 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean  Alfred  Tennyson 

Terrace  and  lawn  are  white  with  frost  .     .     .  Mortimer  Collins 


213 

So 

.     .      Walter  Savage  Landor     132 

much      Walter  Savage  Landor     i2g 

.     Austin  Dobson      ...       77 

.     .     F.  W  Bourdillon     . 

W.  Procter  {Barry  Cornwall 

Alfred  Tennyson 

Thomas  Hood      .     . 

.     .     George  Darley      .     . 

.     .     L  ord  Houghton   .     . 


44 
184 
210 
no 

63 
"5 
200 

43 
124 


Thank  Heaven,  Ianthe,  once  again 
The  fault  is  not  mine  if  I  love  you  too 
The  ladies  of  St.  James's     .... 
The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes     .     . 
The  Sea  !  the  Sea  !  the  open  Sea !     B 
The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls    . 
The  stars  are  with  the  voyager     .     . 
The  streams  that  wind  amid  the  hills 
The  Sun  came  through  the  frosty  mist 

The  Violet  invited  my  kiss Joseph  Skipsey 

There  is  no  summer  ere  the  swallows  come  .     F.  W.  Bourdillon 
Three  fishers  went  sailing  away  to  the  West      Charles  Kingsley  . 

To  sea,  to  sea!   the  calm  is  o'er Thomas  Loziell  Beddoes       33 

Touch  us  gently,  Time  !  ...  B.  W.  Procter  {Barry  Cornwall)  167 
Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  and  lower  the  proud  !  Alfred  Tennyson  216 
Two  doves  upon  the  selfsame  branch   .     .     .     Christina  G.  Rossetti    .     189 

Under  the  lindens  lately  sat Walter  Savage  Landor     130 

Wait  but  a  little  while Norman  Gale  ....  99 

We  have  loiter'd  and  laugh'd  in  the  flowery  croft      .     Frederick  Locker- 

Lampson  134 

We  heard  it  calling,  clear  and  low     .     .     .  Frederick  Locker-Lampson  137 

What  is  the  meaning  of  the  song      ....     Charles  Mackay   .     ■     .  145 

"  What  will  you  do,  love,  when  I  am  going"    Samuel  Lover  .     .     .     .  143 

When  a  warm  and  scented  steam      .     .     .     George  Walter  Thornbury  228 

When  along  the  light  ripple  the  far  serenade       Lord  Houghton     .     .    -  113 

xviii 


3  utic.r  to  first  iiiiKi 


When  another's  voice  thou  hearest       .     .     .     Lady  Dufferin     .     . 

When   I  am  dead,  my  dearest Christina  G.  Rossctti 

When  I  was  young,  I  said  to  Sorrow  .     .     .     Aubrey  de  I'ere    .     . 

When  Spring  casts  all  her  swallows  forth  .     George  Waller  Thornbury     223 

66 
97 


When  the  snow  begins  to  feather      ....     Lord de  Tabley     .     . 

Where  winds  abound Michael  Field  .     .     . 

Who  is  the  baby,  that  dotli  lie Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes  36 

Winds  to-day  are  large  and  free Michael  Field  .     ...  94 

With  deep  affection Francis  Mahoney     •     .  149 

Woo  thy  lass  while  May  is  here Lord de  Tabley    ...  69 


88 

1S6 
74 


U      ! 


TOJIQN5 


"SWEET  and  low,  sweet  and  low"      .     Frontispiece 

Across  the  Sea 16 

•a  maid  i  know, — and    march   winds  blow  "  82 

"i   wandered  15v  the  brook-sidb " 112 

"Three   fishers    went    sailing    away   to    THE 

Wist'' 124 

"She  turned  rack  at  the  last  to  wait"  .     .  158 

"  i  looked  and  saw  vouk  eves  " 1 94 


• 


x.< 


''■''  fe 


1 


|\J 


InTR9DVCT[on 


/7  y  2  7 

The  writer  of  pr  ice  taught, 

Says  the  tiling  chat  will  the  way  thai  lie  "iifjht. 

Frederick  Locker-Lamtson. 

~\  TO  species  of  poetry  is  more  ancient  than  the 
*■  *     lyrical,  and  yet  none  shows  so  little  sign  of 
<ing  outlived  the  requirements  of  human  pas- 
sion.     The  world  may  grow  tired  of  epics  an, 
Hj   tragedies,  but  each  generation,  as  it  sees  the  haw- 

i 

v  thorns  blossom  and  the  freshness  of  girlhood  ex- 


X  X  1 1 1 


Victorian  £ong& 


pand,  is  seised  with  a  pang  which  nothing  but 
the  spasm  of  verse  will  relieve.  Each  youth 
imagines  that  spring-tide  and  love  are  wonders 
which  he  is  the  first  of  human  beings  to  appre- 
ciate, and  he  burns  to  alleviate  his  emotion  in 
rhyme.  Historians  exaggerate,  perhaps,  the  func- 
tion of  music  in  awakening  and  guiding  the 
exercise  of  lyrical  poetry.  The  lyric  exists,  they 
tell  us,  as  an  accompaniment  to  the  lyre ;  and 
without  the  mechanical  harmony  the  spoken  song 
is  an  artifice.  Quite  as  plausibly  might  it  be 
avowed  that  music  was  but  added  to  verse  to 
concentrate  and  emphasise  its  rapture,  to  add 
poignancy  and  volume  to  its  expression.  But 
the  truth  is  that  these  two  arts,  though  some- 
times happily  allied,  are,  and  always  have  been, 
independent.  When  verse  has  been  innocent 
enough  to  lean  on  music,  we  may  be  likely  to  find 
that  music  also  has  been  of  the  simplest  order,  and 
that  the  pair  of  them,  like  two  delicious  children, 
have  tottered  and  swayed  together  down  the  flowery 
meadows  of  experience.  When  either  poetry  or 
music  is  adult,  the  presence  of  each  is  a  distrac- 


XXIV 


-Jntro&urtion. 


Hon  to  the  other,  and  each  prefers,  in  the  elabo- 
rate ages,  to  stand  alone,  since  the  mystery  of  the 
one  confounds  the  complexity  of  the  other.  Most 
poets  hate  music ;  few  musicians  comprehend  the 
nature  of  poetry  ;  and  the  combination  of  these 
arts  has  probably,  in  all  ages,  been  contrived, 
not  for  the  satisfaction  of  artists,  but  for  the 
convenience  of  their  public. 

This  divorce  between  poetry  and  music  has 
been  more  frankly  accepted  in  the  present  century 
than  ever  before,  and  is  nowadays  scarcely 
opposed  in  serious  criticism.  If  music  were  a 
necessary  ornament  of  lyrical  verse,  the  latter 
would  nowadays  scarcely  exist ;  but  we  hear  less 
and  less  of  the  poets  devotion  (save  in  a  purely 
conventional  sense)  to  the  lute  and  the  pipe.  What 
call  the  Victorian  lyric  is  absolutely  independ- 
ent of  any  such  aid.  It  may  be  that  certain 
songs  of  Tennyson  and  Christina  Rossetti  have 
v  with  great  popularity  "  set"  as  it  is  called, 
"  to  music."  So  far  as  the  latter  is  in  itself  suc- 
cessful, it  stultifies  the  former  ;  and  we  admit  at 
last  that  the  idea  of  one  art  aiding  another  in  this 

XXV 


Victorian  &ong& 


combination  is  absolutely  fictitious.  The  beauty 
—  even  the  beauty  of  sound — conveyed  by  the 
ear  in  such  lyrics  as  "  Break,  break,  break"  or 
"  When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest,"  is  obscured,  is 
exchanged  for  another  and  a  rival  species  of 
beauty,  by  the  most  exquisite  musical  setting  that 
a  composer  can  invent. 

The  age  wliich  has  been  the  first  to  accept  this 
condition,  then,  should  be  rich  in  frankly  lyrical 
poetry ;  and  this  we  find  to  be  the  case  with  the 
Victorian  period.  At  no  time  has  a  greater  mass 
of  this  species  of  verse  been  produced,  not  even  in 
the  combined  Elizabethan  and  Jacobean  age. 
But  when  we  come  to  consider  the  quality  of  this 
later  harvest  of  song,  we  observe  in  it  a  far  less 
homogeneous  character.  We  can  take  a  piece  of 
verse,  and  decide  at  sight  that  it  must  be  Eliza- 
bethan, or  of  the  age  of  the  Pleiade  in  France,  or  of 
a  particular  period  in  Italy.  Even  an  ode  of  our 
own  eighteenth  century  is  hardly  to  be  confounded 
with  a  fragment  from  any  other  school.  The  great 
Georgian  age  introduced  a  wide  variety  into  Eng- 
lish poetry ;  and  yet  we  have  but  to  examine  the 

xxvi 


'JntroDurtiou. 


selected  jewels  strung  into  so  exquisite  a  carcanet 
Mr.  Palgrave  in  his  "Golden  Treasury"  to 
notice  with  surprise  how  close  a  family  likeness 
exists  between  the  contributions  of  Shelley ',  Words- 
worthy  Keats,  and  Byron.  The  distinctions  of  style, 
of  course,  are  very  great ;  but  the  general  charac- 
ter of  the  diction,  the  imagery,  even  of  the  rhythm, 
is  more  or  less  identical.  The  stamp  of  the  same 
age  is  upon  them,  —  they  are  hall-marked  1 820. 

//  is  perhaps  too  early  to  decide  that  this  will 
never  be  the  case  with  the  Victorian  lyrics. 
While  zve  live  in  an  age  70c  see  the  distinction  of 
its  parts,  rather  than  their  co-relation.  It  is  said 
that  the  Japanese  Government  once  scut  over  a 
.mission  to  report  upon  the  art  of  Europe  ; 
and  that,  having  visited  the  exhibitions  of 
London,  Paris,  Florence,  and  Berlin,  the  Com- 
missioners confessed  that  the  works  of  the  Euro- 
pean painters  all  looked  so  exactly  alike  that  it 
was  difficult  to  distinguish  one  from  another. 
The  Japanese  eye,  trained  in  absolutely  opposed 
conventions,  could  not  tell  the  difference  between 
a    Watts  and  a   Fortuny,  a    The'odore   Rousseau 

\\\  ii 


Bictorian  £ong& 


and  a  Henry  Moore.  So  it  is  quite  possible,  it 
is  even  probable,  that  future  critics  may  see  a 
close  similarity  where  we  sec  nothing  but  diver- 
gence  between    the    various   productions    of   the 

Victorian  age.  Yet  we  can  judge  but  what  we 
discern;  and  certainly  to  the  critical  eye  to-day 
it  is  the  absence  of  a  central  tendency,  the  chaotic 
cultivation  of  all  contrivablc  varieties  of  style, 
which  most  strikingly  seems  to  distinguish  the 
times  we  live  in. 

We  use  tlie  word  "  Victorian  "  in  literature  to 
distinguish  what  zvas  written  after  the  decline 
of  that  age  of  which  Walter  Scott,  Coleridge, 
and  Wordsworth  were  the  survivors.  It  is  well 
to  recollect,  however,  that    Tennyson,  who  is  the 

Victorian  writer  par  excellence,  had  published 
the  most  individual  and  characteristic  of  his 
lyrics  long  before  the  Queen  ascended  the  throne, 
and     that     Elizabeth     Barrett,    Henry     Taylor, 

William  Barnes,  and  others  were  by  this  date 
of  mature  age.  It  is  diffictdt  to  remind  ourselves, 
who  have  lived  in  the  radiance  of  that  august 
figure,  that  some  of  the  most  beautiful  of  Tenny- 

xxviii 


introduction. 


son's  lyrics,  such  as  "  Mariana  "  and  "  The  Dying 
Swan"  arc  now  separated  from  us  by  as  long  a 
period  of  years  as  divided  them  from  Dr.  John- 
son and  the  author  of  "  Night  Thoughts.'"  The 
refection  is  of  value  only  as  warning  us  of  the 
extraordinary  length  of  the  epoch  we  still  call 
"  Victorian."  It  covers,  not  a  mere  generation, 
but  much  more  than  half  a  century.  During 
this  length  of  time  a  complete  revolution  in  liter- 
ary taste  might  have  been  expected  to  take  place. 
This  has  not  occurred,  and  the  cause  may  very 
well  be  the  extreme  license  permitted  to  the  poets 
to  adopt  whatever  style  they  pleased.  Where  all 
the  doors  stand  wide  open,  there  is  no  object  in 
escaping ;  where  there  is  but  one  door,  and  that- 
one  barred,  it  is  human  nature  to  fret  for  some 
violent  means  of  evasion.  How  divine  have 
been  the  methods  of  the  Victorian  lyrists  may 
easily  be  exemplified :  — 

:'  Quoth  tongue  of  neither  maid  nor  wife 
To  heart  of  neither  icife  nor  maid, 
Lead  we  not  here  a  jolly  life 
Betwixt  the  shine  and  shade  ? 

xxix 


Victorian  ^ong^. 


"  Quoth  heart  of  neither  maid  nor  wife 
To  tongue  of  neither  wife  nor  maid, 
2'hou  wagg'sl,  but  I  am  worn  with  strife, 
And  feel  like  flotuers  that  fade." 

That  is  a  masterpiece,  but  so  is  this  :  — 

"Nay,  but  you  who  do  not  love  her, 

Is  she  not  pure  gold,  my  mistress  ? 
Holds  earth  aught — speak  truth  —  above  her? 

Aught  like  this  tress,  see,  and  this  tress, 
And  this  last  fairest  tress  of  all, 
—  So  fair,  see,  ere  I  let  it  fall? 

"  Because,  you  spend  your  lives  in  praisings, 
To  praise,  you  search  the  wide  world  over  : 
Then  why  not  witness,  calmly  gazing, 

If  earth  holds  aught — speak  truth  —  above  her? 
Above  this  tress,  and  this  I  touch, 
But  cannot  praise,  I  love  so  much  !  " 

And  so  is  this  :--• 

"  Under  tne  wide  and  starry  sky, 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie. 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 

And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 


xxx 


3ntroDurtion. 


"  This  be  the  verse  yon  grave  for  me: 
Here  he  lies  -cohere  he  longed  to  he; 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  sea, 

And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hi//." 

But  who  would  believe  that  the  writers  of  these 
were  contemporaries  t 

If  we  examine  more  closely  the  forms  which 
lyric  poetry  has  taken  since  1830,  we  shall  find 
that  certain  influences  at  work  in  the  minds  of 
our  leading  writers  have  led  to  the  widest  diver- 
gence in  the  character  of  lyrical  verse.  It  will 
be  well,  perhaps,  to  consider  in  turn  the  leading 
classes  of  that  work.  It  was  not  to  be  expected 
that  in  an  age  of  such  complexity  and  self-con- 
sciousness as  ours,  the  pure  song,  the  simple  trill 
of  bird-like  melody,  should  often  or  prominently 
be  heard.  As  civilization  spreads,  it  ceases  to  be 
possible,  or  at  least  it  becomes  less  and  less  usual, 
that  simple  emotion  should  express  itself  with 
absolute  naivete.  Perhaps  Burns  was  the  latest 
poet  in  these  islands  whose  passion  warbled  forth 
in  perfectly  artless  strains  ;  and  he  had  the  ad- 
vantage  of  using  a  dialect  still  unsubdued  and 

xxx  i 


Victorian  £ong£. 


unvulgarized.  Artlessness  nowadays  must  be  the 
result  of  the  most  exquisitely  finished  art ;  if  not, 
it  is  apt  to  be  insipid,  if  not  positively  squalid 
and  fusty.  The  obvious  uses  of  simple  words 
have  been  exhausted ;  we  cannot,  save  by  infinite 
pains  and  the  exercise  of  a  Jiappy  genius,  recover 
the  old  spontaneous  air,  the  effect  of  an  inevitable 
arrangement  of  the  only  possible  words. 

This  beautiful  direct  simplicity,  however,  was 
not  infrequently  secured  by  Tennyson,  and  scarcely 
less  often  by  Christina  Rossetti,  both  of  whom 
have  left  behind  them  jets  of  pure  emotional  mel- 
ody which  compare  to  advantage  with  the  most 
perfect  specimens  of  Greek  and  ElizabetJian  song. 
Tennyson  did  not  very  often  essay  this  class  of 
writing,  but  when  he  did,  he  rarely  failed ;  his 
songs  combine,  with  extreme  naturalness  and 
something  of  a  familiar  sweetness,  a  felicity  of 
workmanship  hardly  to  be  excelled.  In  her  best 
songs,  Miss  Rossetti  is  scarcely,  if  at  all,  his 
inferior ;  but  her  judgment  was  far  less  sure, 
and  she  was  more  ready  to  look  with  complacency 
on   her  failures.     The  songs   of  Mr.  Aubrey  de 


xxxn 


3  ntroDur  tiou. 


Vere  are  not  well  enough  known  .  are  some- 

times singularly  charmin  OtJier  poets  have 
or  twice  succeeded  in  catching  this  clear 
natural  treble, — the  living  linnet  once  captured 
in  the  elm,  as  Tusitala  puts  it ;  but  this  has 
not  been  a  gift  largely  enjoyed  by  our  I  "ictoriau 
poets. 

The  richer  and  more  elaborate  forms  of  lyric, 
on  the  contrary,  have  exactly  suited  this  curious 
and  learned  age  of  ours.      The  species  op    verse 
which,  originally  Italian  or   French,   have  now 
so  abundantly  and  so  admirably  been  practised 
in  England  that  we  can  no  longer  think  of  them 
as  exotic,  having  found  so  many  exponents  in  the 
I  "ictorian  period  that  they  are  pre-eminently  char- 
acteristic  of  it.     "  Scorn  not  the   Sonnet,"    said 
Wordsworth  to  his  contemporaries  ;    but  the  lesson 
has    not  been  needed   in   the  second  half  oj    the 
century.      The   sonnet   is  the  most  solid  and   un- 
able op  the  sections  of  lyrical  poetry  ;    it  is 
'<  ult  to  think  of  it   as  chanted  to  a   musical 
inpaiiimeut.     It  is  used  with  great  distinction 
by  writers  to  -whom  skill  in  the  lighter  division* 


XXX1I1 


Victorian  £ong£* 


of  poetry  lias  been  denied,  and  there  are  poets, 
such  as  Bowles  and  Charles  Tennyson-Turner, 
who  live  by  their  sonnets  alone.  The  practice  of 
the  sonnet  has  been  so  extended  that  all  sense  of 
monotony  has  been  lost.  A  sonnet  by  Elizabeth 
Barrett  Browning  differs  from  one  by  D.  G.  Ros- 
setti  or  by  Matthew  Arnold  to  such  excess  as  to 
make  it  difficult  for  us  to  realise  that  the  form 
in  each  case  is  absolutely  identical. 

With  the  sonnet  might  be  mentioned  the  lighter 
forms  of  elaborate  exotic  verse ;  but  to  these  a 
word  shall  be  given  later  on.  More  closely  allied 
to  the  sonnet  are  those  rich  and  somewhat  fantas- 
tic stanza-measures  in  which  Rossetti  delighted. 
Those  in  which  Keats  and  the  Italians  have  each 
their  part  have  been  greatly  used  by  the  Victorian 
poets.  They  lend  themselves  to  a  melancholy 
magnificence,  to  pomp  of  movement  and  gor- 
geousness  of  color ;  the  very  sight  of  them  gives 
the  page  the  look  of  an  ancient  blazoned  window. 
Poems  of  this  class  are  "  The  Stream's  Secret" 
and  the  choruses  in  "  Love  is  enough."  They 
satisfy  the  appetite  of  our  time  for  subtle  and 

xxxiv 


3  ntroDumon. 


vague  analysis   of  emotion,  for  what  appeals  to 
the  spirit  through  the  senses;   but  here,  again,  in 

different  hands,  the  "  thing"  the  metrical  instru- 
ment,  takes   wholly  diverse   characters,  ana7   ;.  . 
seek   in    vain  for  a  formula   that   can    include 
Robert  Browning  and  Gabriel  Rossetti,  William 
Barnes  and  Arthur  Hugh   Clough. 

From  this  highly  elaborated  and  extended  spe- 
cies of  lyric  the  transition  is  easy  to  the  Ode.  In 
the  I  'ictorian  age,  the  ode,  in  its  full  Pindaric 
sense,  has  not  been  very  frequently  used.  We 
have  specimens  by  Mr.  Swinburne  in  which  the 
Dorian  laws  arc  closely  adhered  to.  But  the  ode, 
in  a  more  or  less  irregular  form,  whether  pican 
or  threnody,  lias  been  the  instrument  of  several  of 
our  leading  lyrists.  The  genius  of  Mr.  Swin- 
burne, even  to  a  greater  degree  than  that  of 
Shelley,  is  essentially  dithy ramble,  and  is  u< 
happier  than  when  it  spreads  its  wings  as  wide 
as  those  of  the  wild  swan,  and  soars  upon  the 
very  breast  of  tempest.  In  these  flights  Mr. 
Swinburne  attains  to  a  volume  of  sonorous  mel- 
ody such  as  no  other  poet,  perhaps,  of  the  world 

XXXV 


Victorian  ^ong^. 


has  reached,  and  we  may  say  to  him,  as  he  has 
shouted  to  the  Mater  Triumphalis  :  — 

"  Darkness  to  daylight  shall  lift  up  thy  paan, 
Hill  to  hill  thunder,  vale  cry  back  to  vale, 
With  wind-notes  as  of  eagles  sEschylean, 
And  Sappho  singing  in  the  nightingale." 

Nothing  could   mark    more   picturesquely   the 
wide  diversity  permitted  in  Victorian  lyric  than 
to  turn  from  the  sonorous  and  tumultuous  odes  of 
Mr.  Swinburne  to  those  of  Mr.  Patmore,  in  which 
stateliness  of  contemplation  and  a  peculiar  auster- 
ity of  tenderness  find  their  expression  in  odes  of 
iambic  cadence,  the  melody  of  which  depends,  not 
in  their  headlong  torrent  of  sound,  but  in  the  cun- 
ning variation   of  catalcctic  pause.      A  similar 
form  has  been   adopted  by  Lord  De  Tablcy  for 
many  of  his  gorgeous   studies   of  antique  myth, 
and  by  Tennyson  for  his  "  Death  of  the  Duke  of 
Wellington!'     It  is  an  error  to  call  these  iambic 
odes  "  irregular,"  although  they  do  not  follow  the 
classic  rules  with  strophe,  antistrophe,  and  epode. 
The    enchanting  "  /    have    led    her   home"    in 


XXXVI 


^Pntrotmcrion. 


"  Maud,"1  is  an  example  of  this  kind  of  lyric  at 
its  highest  point  of  perfection. 

.  I  branch  of  lyrical  poetry  which  has  been  very 
widely  cultivated  in  the  Victorian  ace  is  the 
philosophical \  or  gnomic,  in  which  a  serious 
chain  of  thought,  often  illustrated  by  complex 
and  various  imagery,  is  held  in  a  casket  of 
melodious  vase,  elaborately  rhymed.  Matthew 
Arnold  was  a  master  of  this  kind  of  poetry, 
which  takes  its  form,  through  Wordsworth,  from 
the  solemn  an, I  so-called  "  metaphysical"  writers 
of  the  seventeenth  century.  We  class  this  inter- 
esting and  abundant  section  of  verse  with  the 
lyrical,  because  we  know  not  by  what  other  name 
to  describe  it;  yet  it  has  obviously  as  little  as 
possible  of  the  singing  ecstasy  about  it.  It  neither 
pours  its  heart  out  in  a  rapture,  nor  wails  forth  its 
despair.  It  has  as  little  of  the  nightingale's  rich 
melancholy  as  of  the  lark's  delirium.  It  hardly 
sings,  but,  with  infinite  decorum  and  sobriety, 
speaks  its  melodious  message  to  mankind.  This 
sort  if  philosophical  poetry  is  really  critical ;  its 
function  is  to  analyze  and  describe;  and  it  ap- 

XXX'.  ii 


Victorian  J>ong£. 


proacJies,  save  for  the  enchantment  of  its  form, 
nearer  to  prose  tlian  do  the  other  sections  of  the 
art.  It  is,  however,  just  this  species  of  poetry 
which  has  particularly  appealed  to  the  age  in 
which  we  live ;  and  how  naturally  it  does  so 
may  be  seen  in  the  welcome  extended  to  the  pol- 
ished and  serene  compositions  of  Mr.  William 
Watson. 

Almost  a  creation,  or  at  least  a  complete  con- 
quest, of  the  Victorian  age  is  the  humorous  lyric 
in  its  more   delicate   developments.     If  the  past 
can  point  to  Prior  and  to  Praed,  we  can  boast, 
in   their  various   departments,    of    Calverly,   of 
Locker- Latnpson,  of  Mr.  Andrew  Lang,  of  Mr. 
W.    S.    Gilbert.      The   comic   m?ise,   indeed,  has 
marvellously  extended  her  blandishments  during 
the    last    two    generations,   and    has   discovered 
methods   of  trivial  elegance   which    were   quite 
unknown   to  our  forefathers.      Here   must  cer- 
tainly be  said  a  word  in  favor  of  those  French 
forms  of  verse,  all  essentially  lyrical,  such  as 
the   ballad,  the   rondel,   the   triolet,   which   have 
been   used  so   abundantly  as  to   become  quite  a 

xxxviii 


^ntrotmction. 


feature  in  our  lighter  literature.  These  are  not, 
or  are  but  rarely,  fitted  to  bear  the  burden  of  high 
emotion ;  but  their  precision,  and  the  deftness 
which  their  use  demands  fit  them  exceedingly 
well  for  the  more  distinguished  kind  of  persi- 
flage. No  one  has  kept  these  delicate  butterflies 
in  flight  with  the  agile  movement  of  his  fan  so 
admirably  as  Mr.  Austin  Dob  son,  that  neatest  of 
magicians* 

Those  who  write  hastily  of  Victorian   lyrical 
poetry  are  apt  to  find  fault  with  its  lack  of  spon- 
taneity.     It  is  true   that   we   cannot  pretend  to 
discover  on  a  greensward  so  often  crossed  and 
re-crossed  as    the    poetic    language   of  England 
many   morning  dcivdrops  still  glistening  on   the 
grasses.      We  have  to  pay  the  penalty  of  our  ex- 
perience in   a   certain    lack    of  innocence.       The 
artless  graces  of  a   child  seem   mincing  affecta- 
tions in  a  grown-up  woman.     But  the  poetry  oj 
this  age    has    amply  made  up  for   any  lack    of 
innocence  by  its  sumptuous  fulness,  its    variety, 
its    magnificent    accomplishment,     its    felicitous 
response  to  a   multitude  of  moods  and  apprehen- 

xxxix 


Victorian  £ong& 


sions.  It  has  struck  out  no  new  field  for  itself  ; 
it  still  remains  where  the  romantic  revolution  of 
1798  placed  it ;  its  aims  are  not  other  than  were 
those  of  Coleridge  and  of  Keats.  But  within 
that  defined  sphere  it  has  developed  a  surprising 
activity.  It  has  occupied  the  attention  and  be- 
come the  facile  instrument  of  men  of  the  greatest 
genius,  writers  of  whom  any  age  and  any  lan- 
guage might  be  proud.  It  has  been  tender  and 
fiery,  severe  and  voluminous,  gorgeous  and  mar- 
moreal, in  turns.  It  has  translated  into  words 
feelings  so  subtle,  so  transitory,  moods  so  fragile 
and  intangible,  that  the  rough  hand  of  prose 
would  but  have  crushed  them.  And  this,  surely, 
indicates  the  great  gift  of  Victorian  lyrical  poetry 
to  the  race.  During  a  time  of  extreme  mental 
and  moral  restlessness,  a  time  of  speculation  and 
evolution,  wlien  all  illusions  are  tested,  all  con- 
ventio7is  overthrown,  when  the  Jiardcr  elements 
of  life  have  been  brought  violently  to  the  front, 
and  where  there  is  a  temptation  for  the  emanci- 
pated mind  roughly  to  reject  what  is  not  material 
and  obvious,  this   art  has  preserved  intact  the 

xl 


3'ntroDurtion. 


lovelier  delusions  of  the  spirit,  all  that  is  vague 
ami  incorporeal  and  illusory.  So  that  for  J  'ie- 
toriau  Lyric  generally  no  better  final  definition 
can  be  given  than  is  supplied  by  Mr.  Robert 
Bridges  in  a  little  poem  of  incomparable  beauty, 
which  may  fitly  bring  this  essay  to  a  close  :  — 

"  1 have  loved  flowers  that  fade, 

Within  -whose  magic  tents 
Rich  hues  hare  marriage  made 

ll'i  tli  sweet  immemorial  scents  : 
A  joy  of  love  at  sight,  — 
A  honeymoon  delight, 
That  ages  in  an  hour:  — 
My  song  be  like  a  flower. 

"  /  have  loved  airs  that  die 
Before  their  eh  arm  is  writ 
Upon  the  liquid  sky 

Trembling  to  welcome  it. 
Notes  that  with  pulse  of  fire 
Proclaim  the  spirit's  desire, 
Then  die,  and  are  nowhere  :  — 
My  song  be  like  an  air." 

Edmund  Gosse. 


xli 


Victorian- &on<js 


Short. sWattow-fiiqhs  oj  song" 
TENNYSON 


HAMILTON    AIDE. 
REMEMBER  OR  FORGET. 


1830. 


I 


SAT  beside  the  streamlet, 

I  watched  the  water  flow, 
As  we  together  watched  it 

One  little  year  ago ; 
The  soft  rain   pattered  on  the  leaves, 

The   April  grass  was  wet, 
Ah!  folly  to  remember;  — 

Tis  wiser  to  forget. 


Victorian  £tmg£. 


ii. 

The  nightingales  made  vocal 

June's  palace  paved  with  gold ; 
I  watched  the  rose  you  gave  me 

Its  warm  red  heart  unfold ; 
But  breath  of  rose  and  bird's  song 

Were  fraught  with  wild  regret. 
'T  is  madness  to   remember ; 

'Twere  wisdom  to  forget. 

in. 
I  stood  among  the  gold  corn, 

Alas  !  no  more,  I  knew, 
To  gather  gleaner's  measure 

Of  the  love  that  fell  from  you. 
For  me,  no  gracious  harvest  — 

Would  God  we  ne'er  had  met ! 
'Tis  hard,  Love,  to  remember,  but 

'Tis  harder  to  forget. 

IV. 

The  streamlet  now  is  frozen, 
The  nightingales  are  fled, 

4 


Hamilton  XiDc, 


The  cornfields  are  deserted, 
And  every  rose  is  dead. 

I  sit  beside  my  lonely  fire, 
And  pray  for  wisdom  yet- 

For  calmness  to  remember 
Or  courage  to  forget. 


Bictoriau  J>ong£. 


OH,    LET  ME  DREAM. 

FROM    "A    NINE   DAYS'   WONDER." 

/""^H  !  let  me  dream  of  happy  days  gone  by, 

Forgetting  sorrows  that  have  come  between, 
As  sunlight  gilds  some  distant  summit  high, 

And  leaves  the  valleys  dark  that  intervene. 
The  phantoms  of  remorse  that  haunt 

The  soul,  are  laid  beneath  that  spell ; 
As,  in  the  music  of  a  chaunt 
Is  lost  the  tolling  of  a  bell. 
Oh  !  let  me  dream  of  happy  days  gone  by,  etc. 

In  youth,  we  plucked  full  many  a  flower  that  died. 

Dropped  on  the  pathway,  as  we  danced  along  ; 
And  now,  we  cherish  each  poor  leaflet  dried 

In  pages  which  to  that  dear  past  belong. 
With  sad  crushed  hearts  they  yet  retain 

Some  semblance  of  their  glories  fled ; 
Like  us,  whose  lineaments  remain, 

When  all  the  fires  of  life  are  dead. 
Oh  !  let  me  dream,  etc. 


Dannlron   3UDc. 


LOVE.    THE  TILGRIM. 

SUGGESTED    BY   A   SKETCH    BY   E.    BURNE-JONES. 

CVERY  day  a  Pilgrim,  blindfold, 

When  the  night  and  morning  meet, 
Entereth  the  slumbering  city, 

Stealeth  down  the  silent  street ; 
I.ingereth  round  some  battered  doorway, 

res  unblest  some  portal  grand, 
And  the  walls,  where  sleep  the  children, 
Toucheth,  with  his  warm  young  hand. 
Love  is  passing  !     Love  is  passing  !  — 

Passing  while  ye  lie  asleep  : 
In  your  blessed  dreams,  O  children, 
Give  him  all  your  hearts  to  keep  ! 

Blindfold  is  this  Pilgrim,  Maiden. 
Though  to-day  he  touched  thy  door, 

lie   may  pass  it  by  to-morrow  — 
—  Pass  it  —  to  return  no  more. 


Victorian  £on0& 


Let  us  then  with  prayers  entreat  him, — 

Youth  !  her  heart,  whose  coldness  grieves, 
May  one  morn  by  Love  be  softened; 
Prize  the  treasure  that  he  leaves. 
Love  is  passing  !  Love  is  passing  ! 

All,  with  hearts  to  hope  and  pray, 
Bid  this  pilgrim  touch  the  lintels 
Of  your  doorways  every  day. 


WILLIAM    ALLINGHAM. 
LONELY  MARY  DONNELLY. 


1824-1889. 


/""^H,  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  my  joy,  my  only  best! 
If  fifty  girls  were  round  you,  I  'd  hardly  see  the 
rest ; 
Be  what    it    may  the  time  o'  day,  the  place  be  where 

it  will, 
Sweet  looks  o'  Mary  Donnelly,  they  bloom  before  me 
still. 


Her  eyes  like  mountain  water  that 's  flowing  on  a  rock, 
How  clear  they  are,  how  dark  they  are!  they  give  me 

many  a  shock  ; 
Red  rowans  warm  in  sunshine  and  wetted  with  a  show'r, 
Could  ne'er  express  the   charming   lip  that   has  me  in 

its  pow'r. 


Victorian  c£>cmg£. 


Her    nose    is    straight    and    handsome,    her    eyebrows 

lifted  up, 
Her  chin  is  very  neat   and    pert,    and    smooth  like    a 

china  cup, 
Her   hair's    the    brag    of   Ireland,    so    weighty  and  so 

fine ; 
It's  rolling  down  upon  her  neck,  and  gathered  in  a  twine. 

The  dance    o'   last   Whit-Monday   night    exceeded    all 

before, 
No  pretty  girl  for    miles    about  was   missing   from  the 

floor; 
But  Mary  kept  the  belt  o'  love,  and  O  but  she  was  gay  ! 
She    danced    a   jig,    she    sung  a  song,    that    took   my 

heart  away. 

When  she    stood    up    for   dancing,  her    steps    were   so 

complete 
The  music  nearly   kill'd  itself  to  listen  to  her  feet  ; 
The   fiddler  moaned    his    blindness,   he    heard    her   so 

much  praised, 
But    bless'd    his    luck   to   not   be  deaf  when  once  her 

voice  she  raised. 

10 


IDillinm  3Ulmglmm. 


And  evermore  I  'm  whistling  or  lilting  what  you  sung, 
Your    smile  is  always  in    my   heart,  your   name    beside 

my  tongue  ; 
i    you  've    as    many    sweethearts   as   you  'd  count  on 

both  your  hands, 
And   fur  myself   there  's    not   a   thumb    or    little    finger 

stands. 

Tis  you're  the  flower  o' womankind  in  country  or  in 

town  ; 
The  higher  I   exalt  you,   the  lower  I  'm  cast  down. 
If  some    great    lord    should    come    this    way,  and    see 

your  beauty  bright, 
And  you  to  be  his  lady,  I  'd  own  it  was  but  right. 

O  might  we  live  together  in  a  lofty  palace  hall, 
Where  joyful   music    rises,  and  where    scarlet    curtains 

fall  ! 
<  )    might    we    live    together    in    a   cottage    mean    ami 

small, 
With  sods  o'  grass  the   only  roof,  and    mud    the    only 

wall  1 


11 


Bictotian  ^ong^ 


O  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  your  beauty  's  my  distress. 
It 's    far    too    beauteous    to    be    mine,   but    I  '11   never 

wish  it  less. 
The    proudest    place    would    fit   your    face,  and  I  am 

poor  and  low ; 
But    blessings  be    about    you,  dear,  wherever  you  may 

go! 


12 


imiluim  3Ulnt0l)am. 


SONG. 

r\   SPIRIT  of  the  Summertime  ! 

Bring  back  the  roses  to  the  dells ; 
The  swallow  from  her  distant  clime, 
The  honey-bee  from  drowsy  cells. 

Bring  back  the  friendship  of  the  sun  ; 

The  gilded  evenings,  calm  and  late, 
When  merry  children  homeward  run, 

And  peeping  stars  bid  lovers  wait. 

Bring  back  the  singing ;  and  the  scent 
Of  meadowlands  at  dewy  prime  ;  — 

Oh,  bring  again  my  heart's  content, 
Thou  Spirit  of  the  Summertime  ! 


'3 


Bictorian  £ong£. 


o 


SERENADE. 

H,  hearing  sleep,  and  sleeping  hear, 
The  while  we  dare  to  call  thee  dear, 
So  may  thy  dreams  be  good,  altho' 
The  loving  power  thou  dost  not  know. 
As  music  parts  the  silence,  —  lo  ! 
Through  heaven  the  stars  begin  to  peep. 
To  comfort  us  that  darkling  pine 
Because  those  fairer  lights  of  thine 
Have  set  into  the  Sea  of  Sleep, 
Yet  closed  still  thine  eyelids  keep ; 
And  may  our  voices  through  the  sphere 

Of  Dreamland  all  as  softly  rise 
As  through  these  shadowy  rural  dells, 
Where  bashful  Echo  somewhere  dwells, 
And  touch  thy  spirit  to  as  soft  replies. 
May  peace  from  gentle  guardian  skies, 
Till  watches  of  the  dark  are  worn, 
Surround  thy  bed,  and  joyous  morn 


H 


iDiliiam   Xlltngfiam. 


Makes  all  the  chamber  rosy  bright  ! 
Good-night!  —  From  far-off  fields  is  borne 
The  drowsy  Echo's  faint  'Good-night,'  — 

Good-night !     Good-night ! 


»5 


Victorian  £ong£. 


ACROSS   THE  SEA 

WALKED  in  the  lonesome  evening, 
And  who  so  sad  as  I, 
When  I  saw  the  young  men  and  maidens 
Merrily  passing  by. 

To  thee,  my  Love,  to  thee  — 
So  fain  would  I  come  to  thee  ! 
While  the  ripples  fold  upon  sands  of  gold, 
And  I  look  across  the  sea. 


I  stretch  out  my  hands ;    who  will  clasp  them  ? 

I  call,  —  thou  repliest  no  word. 
Oh,  why  should  heart-longing  be  weaker 
Than  the  waving  wings  of  a  bird  ! 
To  thee,  my  Love,  to  thee  — 
So  fain  would  I  come  to  thee  ! 
For  the  tide  's  at  rest  from  east  to  west, 
And  I  look  across  the  sea. 


16 


I 


IMliam  XUinglnim. 


There  's  joy  in  the  hopeful  morning, 
There  's  peace  in  the  parting  day, 
There  's  sorrow  with  every  lover 
^Vhose  true  love  is  far  away. 
To  thee,  my  Love,  to  thee  — 
So  fain  would  I  come  to  thee  ! 
And  the  water  's  bright  in  a  still  moonlight, 
As  I  look  across  the  sea. 


17 


SIR   EDWIN   ARNOLD. 

SERENADE. 


1832. 


T    UTE  !  breathe  thy  lowest  in  my  Lady's  ear, 

Sing  while  she  sleeps,  "  Ah  !    belle  dame,  aimez- 

vous?" 
Till,  dreaming  still,  she  dream  that  I  am  here, 

And  wake  to  find  it,  as  my  love  is,  true ; 
Then,  when  she  listens  in  her  warm  white  nest, 

Say  in  slow  music,  —  softer,  tenderer  yet, 
That  lute-strings  quiver  when  their  tone  's  at  rest, 

And  my  heart  trembles  when  my  lips  are  set. 

Stars  !   if  my  sweet  love  still  a-dreaming  lies, 
Shine  through  the  roses  for  a  lover's  sake 

And  send  your  silver  to  her  lidded  eyes, 
Kissing   them  very  gently  till  she  wake; 

iS 


^ir  <£DUrin  Xrnolti. 


Then   while  she  wonders  at  the  lay  and   1  i ^  1 1 1 . 

Tell  her,  though  morning  endeth  star  and  song, 
That  ye  live  still,  when  no  star  glitters  bright, 

And  my  love  lasteth,  though  it  finds  no  tongue. 


•9 


Victorian  ^ong^. 


A  LOVE  SONG  OF  HENRI  QUATRE. 

r^  OME,  rosy  Day  ! 

Come  quick  —  I  pray — 
I  am  so  glad  when  I  thee  see  ! 

Because  my  Fair, 

Who  is  so  dear, 
Is  rosy-red  and  white  like  thee. 

She  lives,  I  think, 

On  heavenly  drink 
Dawn-dew,  which  Hebe  pours  for  her ; 

Else  —  when  I  sip 

At  her  soft  lip 
How  smells  it  of  ambrosia? 

She  is  so  fair 

None  can  compare ; 
And,  oh,  her  slender  waist  divine  ! 

Her  sparkling  eyes 

Set  in  the  skies 
The  morning  stars  would  far  outshine  ! 

20 


^a*  OUun  Xrnolti. 


Only  to  hear 

Her  voice  so  clear 
The  village  gathers  in  the  street; 

And  Tityrus, 

Grown  one  of  us, 
Leaves  piping  on  his  flute  so  sweet. 

The  Graces  three, 

Where'er  she  be, 
Call  all  the  Loves  to  flutter  nigh; 

And  what  she  '11  say,  — 

Speak  when  she  may, — 
Is  full  of  sense  and  majesty  ! 


21 


THOMAS   ASHE. 


NO  AND    YES. 


1836-1889. 


[  F  I  could  choose  my  paradise, 

And  please  myself  with  choice  of  bliss, 
Then  I  would  have  your  soft  blue  eyes 

And  rosy  little  mouth  to  kiss  ! 
Your  lips,  as  smooth  and  tender,  child, 
As  rose-leaves  in  a  coppice  wild. 


If   fate  bade  choose  some  sweet  unrest, 
To  weave  my  troubled  life  a  snare, 

Then  I  would  say  "her  maiden  breast 
And  golden  ripple  of  her  hair ; " 

And  weep  amid  those  tresses,  child, 

Contented  to  be  thus  beguiled. 


22 


Chomas   Xslic. 


AT  ALTF.NAHR. 

1  \ :  ■  ■ 
Meet  -i- 1  tu  Pansie? 

/^AME,  on  a  Sabbath  noon,  my  sweet, 
In  white,  to  find   her  lover; 
The   grass   grew  proud   beneath   her   feet, 
The  green  elm-leaves  above  her :  — 
Meet  we  no  angels,  Pansie? 

She  said,  "We  meet  no  angels  now;" 
And   soft  lights   streamed  upon  her; 

And  with  white  hand  she  touched  a  bough  ; 
She  did   it  that  great  honour  :  — 
What  !    meet  no  angels,  Pansie? 

O  sweet  brown  hat,  brown  hair,  brown  eyes 
Down-dropped  brown  eyes  so  tender! 

Then  what  said  I?  —  Gallant  replies 
Seem  flattery,  and  offend   her:  — 
But,  —  meet  no  angels,   Pansie? 


23 


Bictortan  J>ono;£. 


MARIT. 

1869-70. 

C'est  tin  songe  que  d'y  penser. 

Y  love,  on  a  fair  May  morning, 
Would  weave  a  garland  of  May : 
The  dew  hung  frore,  as  her  foot  tripped  o'er 

The  grass  at  dawn  of  the  day ; 
On  leaf  and  stalk,  in  each  green  wood-walk, 

Till  the  sun  should  charm  it  away. 


M 


Green  as  a  leaf  her  kirtle, 

Her  bodice  red  as  a  rose : 
Her  white  bare  feet  went  softly  and  sweet 

By  roots  where  the  violet  grows; 
Where  speedwells  azure  as  heaven, 

Their  sleepy  eyes  half  close. 

O'er  arms  as  fair  as  the  lilies 

No  sleeve  my  love  drew  on : 
She  found  a  bower  of  the  wildrose  flower, 

And  for  her  breast  culled  one  : 
And  I  laugh  and  know  her  breasts  will  grow 

Or  ever  a  year  be  gone. 
24 


Cijomas"  2Uhc. 


O  sweet  dream,  wrought  of  a  dear  fore-thought, 

Of  a  golden  time  to  fall ! 
She  seemed  to  sing,  in  her  wandering, 

Till  doves  in  the  elm-tops  tall 
Grew  mute  to  hear ;  as  her  song  rang  clear 

How  love  is  the  lord  of  all. 


25 


ALFRED   AUSTIN. 

A   NIGHT  IN  JUNE. 

ADY  !  in  this  night  of  June, 

Fair  like  thee   and  holy, 
Art  thou  gazing  at  the  moon 
That  is  rising  slowly? 

I  am  gazing  on  her  now : 
Something  tells  me,  so  art  thou. 

Night  hath  been  when  thou  and  I 

Side  by  side  were  sitting, 
Watching  o'er  the  moonlit  sky 
Fleecy  cloudlets  flitting. 

Close  our  hands  were  linked  then  ; 
When  will  they  be  linked  again? 

26 


1835. 


3Ufrct>  Xustm. 


What  to  me  the  starlight  still, 

<  »r  the  moonbeams'  splendour, 
If  1   do  not  feel  the  thrill 

Of  thy  fingers  slender? 

S   miner  nights  in  vain  are  clear, 
If  thy  footstep  be  not  near. 


Roses  slumbering  in  their  sheaths 

O'er  my  threshold  clamber, 
And  the  honeysuckle  wreathes 
Its  translucent  amber 

Round  the  gables  of  my  home  : 
How  is  it  thou  dost  not  come? 


If  thou  earnest,  rose  on  rose 

From  its  sleep  would  waken  ; 
From  each  flower  and  leaf  that  blows 
Spices  would  be   shaken  ; 

Floating  down   from   star  and   lice, 
Dreamy  perfumes  welcome  thee. 


27 


Bittorian  £ong£. 


I  would  lead  thee  where  the  leaves 

In  the  moon-rays  glisten ; 
And,  where  shadows  fall  in  sheaves, 
We  would  lean  and  listen 

For  the  song  of  that  sweet  bird 
That  in  April  nights  is  heard. 


And  when  weary  lids  would  close, 
And  thy  head  was  drooping, 

Then,  like  dew  that  steeps  the  rose, 

O'er  thy  languor  stooping, 

I  would,  till  I  woke  a  sigh, 
Kiss  thy  sweet  lips  silently. 


I  would  give  thee  all  I  own, 

All  thou  hast  would  borrow, 
I  from  thee  would  keep  alone 
Fear  and  doubt  and  sorrow. 
All  of  tender  that  is  mine 
Should  most  tenderly  be  thine. 


28 


Alfred  Kustiu. 


Moonlight !   into  other  skies, 

I  beseech  thee  wander. 
Cruel  thus  to  mock  mine  eyes, 
Idle,  thus  to  squander 

Love's  own  light  on  this  dark  spot; 
For  my  lady  cometh  not ! 


THOMAS   LOVELL   BEDDOES. 

DREAM-PEDLARY. 
I. 
TF  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 

What  would  you  buy? 
Some  cost  a  passing  bell ; 

Some  a  light  sigh, 
That  shakes  from  Life's  fresh  crown 
Only  a  rose-leaf  down. 
If  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 
Merry  and  sad  to  tell, 
And  the  crier  rung  the  bell, 
What  would  you  buy? 


1803-184.} 


30 


Cbomas  IloUril  ^c&tjocs. 


ii. 

A  cottage  lone  and  still, 

With  bowers  nigh, 
Shadowy,  my  woes  to  still, 

Until  I  die. 
Such  pearl   from   Life's  fresh  crown 
Fain  would  I  shake  me  down. 
Were  dreams  to  have  at  will, 
This  would  best  heal  my  ill, 

This  would  1  buy. 


in. 

But  there  were  dreams  to  sell 

111  didst  thou  buy ; 
Life  is  a  dream,  they  tell, 

Waking,  to  die. 
Dreaming  a  dream  to  prize, 
Is  wishing  ghosts  to  rise; 

And,  if  I  had  the  spell 

To  call  the  buried  well, 
Which  one  would  I  ? 


31 


Victorian  £cmg£. 


IV. 

If  there  are  ghosts  to  raise, 

What  shall  I  call, 
Out  of  hell's  murky  haze, 

Heaven's  blue  pall? 
Raise  my  loved  long-lost  boy 
To  lead  me  to  his  joy.  — 

There  are  no  ghosts  to  raise ; 

Out  of  death  lead  no  ways; 
Vain  is  the  call. 


v. 

Know'st  thou  not  ghosts  to  sue 

No  love  thou  hast. 
Else  lie,  as  I  will  do, 

And  breathe  thy  last. 
So  out  of  Life's  fresh  crown 
Fall  like  a  rose-leaf  down. 

Thus  are  the  ghosts  to  woo ; 

Thus  are  all  dreams  made  true. 
Ever  to  last ! 


32 


£i)cmu$  itoucli  OcDDocs. 


SONG    FROM    THE   SHIP. 

FROM    "DEATH'S  JEST-BOOK." 

TO  sea,  to  sea!    the  calm  is  o'er; 
The  wanton  water  leaps  in  sport, 
And  rattles  down  the  pebbly  shore  ; 

The  dolphin  wheels,  the  sea-cows  snort, 
And  unseen  Mermaids'  pearly  song 
Comes  bubbling  up,  the  weeds  among. 
Fling  broad  the  sail,  dip  deep  the  oar : 
To  sea,  to  sea  !    the  calm  is  o'er. 

To  sea,  to  sea  !     Our  wide-winged  bark 
Shall  billowy  cleave  its  sunny  way, 

And  with  its  shadow,  fleet  and  dark, 
Break  the  caved  Tritons'  azure  day, 

Like  mighty  eagle  soaring  light 

O'er  antelopes  on  Alpine  height. 

The  anchor  heaves,  the  ship  swings  free, 
The  sails  swell  full.     To  sea,  to  se 


33 


Bictorian  J>cmg£. 


SONG. 

I\  A  Y  goblet's  golden  lips  are  dry, 
And,  as  the  rose  doth  pine 
For  dew,  so  doth  for  wine 
My  goblet's  cup ; 
Rain,  O  !  rain,  or  it  will  die ; 
Rain,  fill  it  up  ! 


Arise,  and  get  thee  wings  to-night, 
^Etna !    and  let  run  o'er 
Thy  wines,  a  hill  no  more, 
But  darkly  frown 
A  cloud,  where  eagles  dare  not  soar, 
Dropping  rain  down. 


34 


£t)omns  IIoDcll  -^ctiDors. 


S  O  A'  G. 

FROM    ,:THE   SECOND    BROTHER." 

OTRKW  not  earth  with  empty  stars, 

Strew  it  not  with  roses, 
Nor  feathers  from  the  crest  of  Mars, 

Nor  summer's  idle   posies. 
T  is  not  the  primrose-sandalled  moon, 

Nor  cold  and  silent  morn, 
Nor  he  that  climbs  the  dusty  noon, 
Nor  mower  war  with  scythe   that  drops, 
Stuck  with   helmed  and  Unbailed  tops 

Of  enemies  new  shorn. 
Ye  cups,  ye  lyres,  ye  trumpets  know, 
Pour  your  music,  let  it  flow, 
T  is  Bacchus'  son  who  walks  below. 


35 


Bictorian  ^crng^u 


SONG,   BY    TWO    VOICES. 

FROM    "THE    BRIDES'    TRAGEDY." 

FIRST   VOICE. 

Y\  7 HO  is  the  baby,  that  doth  lie 
Beneath  the  silken  canopy 
Of  thy  blue  eye? 

SECOND. 

It  is  young  Sorrow,  laid  asleep 
In  the  crystal  deep. 

BOTH. 

Let  us  sing  his  lullaby, 
Heigho  !    a  sob  and  a  sigh. 

FIRST   VOICE. 

What  sound  is  that,  so  soft,  so  clear, 
Harmonious  as  a  bubbled  tear 
Bursting,  we  hear? 

36 


£iiomns  iloUcll  ;3ct)Doc.s. 


SECOND. 
It  is  young  Sorrow,  slumber  breaking, 
Suddenly  awaking. 


BOTH. 

Let  us  sing  his  lullaby, 
Heigho !    a  sob  and  a  sigh. 


37 


Victorian  J>oit0£, 


SONG. 

FROM    "  TORRISMOND." 

T_T  OW  many  times  do  I  love  thee,  dear? 
Tell  me  how  many  thoughts  there  be 
In  the  atmosphere 
Of  a  new- fall' n  year, 
Whose  white  and  sable  hours  appear 

The  latest  flake  of  Eternity :  — 
So  many  times  do  I  love  thee,  dear. 

How  many  times  do  I  love  again? 
Tell  me  how  many  beads  there  are 
In  a  silver  chain 
Of  evening  rain, 
Unravelled  from  the  tumbling  main, 

And  threading  the  eye  of  a  yellow  star 
So  many  times  do  I  love  again. 


38 


WILLIAM    COX   BENNETT. 


CRADLE  SONG. 

QLEEP!    the  bird  is  in  its  nest; 

Sleep  !    the  bee  is  hushed  in  rest ; 
Sleep  !    rocked  on  thy  mother's  breast ! 

Lullaby  ! 
To  thy  mother's  fond  heart  pressed, 
Lullaby  ! 


1820 


Sleep  !    the  waning  daylight  dies ; 
Sleep  !    the  stars  dream  in  the  skies ; 
Daisies  long  have  closed  their  eyes; 

Lullaby  ! 
Calm,  how  calm  on  all  things  lies  ! 

Lullaby  ! 

39 


Victorian  ^cmgSu 


Sleep  then,  sleep  !   my  heart's  delight ! 
Sleep  !    and  through  the  darksome  night 
Round  thy  bed  God's  angels  bright 

Lullaby  ! 
Guard  thee  till  I  come  with  light ! 

Lullaby  ! 


40 


IDiliiam  £or  Bennett. 


MY  ROSES  BLOSSOM    THE   WHOLE    YEAR   ROUND. 

\/\  Y  roses  blossom  the  whole  year  round  ; 

For,  O  they  grow  on  enchanted  ground  ; 
Divine  is  the  earth 
Where  they  spring  to  birth  ; 
On  dimpling  cheeks  with  love  and  mirth, 
They  're  found 
They  're  ever  found. 

My  lilies  no  change  of  seasons  heed  ; 

Nor  shelter  from  storms  or  frosts  they  need ; 

For,  O  they  grow 

On  a  neck  of  snow, 
Nor  all  the  wintry  blasts  that  blow 
They  heed, 

They  ever  heed. 


4i 


Victorian  £ong& 


CRADLE  SONG. 

T   ULLABY!     O  lullaby! 

Baby,  hush  that  little,  cry  ! 
Light  is  dying, 
Bats  are  flying, 
Bees  to-day  with  work  have  done ; 
So,  till  comes  the  morrow's  sun, 
Let  sleep  kiss  those  bright  eyes  dry  ! 
Lullaby!     O  lullaby! 

Lullaby  !     O  lullaby  ! 

Hushed  are  all  things  far  and  nigh; 

Flowers  are  closing, 

Birds  reposing, 
All  sweet  things  with  life  have  done ; 
Sweet,  till  dawns  the  morning  sun, 
Sleep  then  kiss  those  blue  eyes  dry  ! 

Lullaby!     O  lullaby! 


42 


F.  W.  BOURDILLON. 


LOWS   MEINIE. 


1852. 


"THERE   is   DO  summer  ere  the  swallows  come, 

Nor  Love  appears, 
Till   Hope,   Love's  light-winged   herald,  lifts  the   gloom 
( )i  years. 

There   is   no  summer  left  when  swallows  fly, 

And   Love  at  last, 
When  hopes  which  filled  its  heaven  droop  and  die, 

Is  past. 


43 


Victorian  ^ong£. 


THE  NIGHT  HAS  A    THOUSAND  EYES. 

r~FHE  night  has  a  thousand  eyes, 
And  the  day  but  one ; 
Yet  the  light  of  the  bright  world  dies 
With  the  dying  sun. 

The  mind  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  heart  but  one  ; 
Yet  the  light  of  a  whole  life   dies 

When  love  is  done. 


44 


f.  ID.  ^ourtrillon. 


A   LOST   VO ICE. 

A     THOUSANJ  l  voi<  es  fill  my  ears 

All  day  until  the  light  grows  pale  ; 
But  silence  falls  when  night-time  nears, 

And  where  art  thou,  sweet  nightingale? 


Was  that  thine   echo,  faint  and  far? 

Nay,  all  is  hushed  as  heaven  above; 
In  earth  no  voice,  in  heaven  no  star, 

And  in  my  heart  no  dream  of  love. 


45 


ROBERT   BUCHANAN. 


SERENADE. 

QLEEP  sweet,  beloved  one,  sleep  sweet ! 

Without  here  night  is  growing, 
The  dead  leaf  falls,  the  dark  boughs  meet, 

And  a  chill  wind  is  blowing. 
Strange  shapes  are  stirring  in  the  night, 

To  the  deep  breezes  wailing, 
And  slow,  with  wistful  gleams  of  light, 
The  storm-tost  moon  is  sailing. 


Sleep  sweet,  beloved  one,  sleep  sweet ! 

Fold  thy  white  hands,  my  blossom  ! 
Thy  warm  limbs  in  thy  lily  sheet, 

Thy  hands  upon  thy  bosom. 

46 


ilobrrr  Buchanan, 


Though  evil  thoughts  may  walk  the  dark, 
N  it  one  shall   near  thy  chamber; 

But  shapes  divine  shall  pau.se  to  mark, 
Singing  to  lutes  of  amber. 

Sleep    iweet,  beloved   one,  sleep   sweet  ! 
Though,  on   thy   bosom   creeping, 

rjge   hands  are  laid,  to  feel  the  beat 
Of  thy  soft  heart  in  sleeping. 
The  brother  angels,  Sleep  and   Death, 

p  by  thy  couch  and  eye  thee  ; 
And  Sleep  stoops  down  to  drink  thy  breath, 
While  Death  goes  softly  by  thee  ! 


47 


Victorian  £ong& 


"O 


SONG. 

FROM   "LOVE    IN    WINTER." 

LOVE  is  like  the  roses, 
And  every  rose  shall  fall, 
For  sure  as  summer  closes 
They  perish  one  and  all. 
Then  love,  while  leaves  are  on  the  tree, 

And  birds  sing  in  the  bowers  : 
When  winter  comes,  too  late  'twill  be 
To  pluck  the  happy  flowers." 

"  O  Love  is  like  the  roses, 

Love  comes,  and  Love  must  flee  ! 
Before  the  summer  closes 

Love's  rapture  and  Love's  glee  ! " 


48 


MORTIMER   COLLINS. 

TO  F.  c. 
20TH  February  1S75. 

CAST  falls  the  snow,  O  lady  mine, 

Sprinkling  the  lawn  with  crystals  fine, 
But  by  the  gods  we  won't  repine 

While  we  're  together, 
We  '11  chat  and    rhyme   and  kiss  and  dine, 
Defying  weather. 


1827  1S7O 


So  stir  the  fire  and  pour  the  wine, 
And  let  those  sea-green  eyes  divine 
Pour  their  love-madness  into  mine  : 

I  don't  care  whether 
'T  is  snow  or  sun  or  rain  or  shine 

If  we  're  together. 

49 


Victorian  £>m\Q$. 


A  GAME  OF  CHESS. 

'"TERRACE  and    lawn   are  white  with  frost, 
Whose  fretwork  flowers  upon  the  panes  — 
A  mocking  dream  of  summer,  lost 
'Mid  winter's  icy  chains. 

White-hot,  indoors,  the  great  logs  gleam, 
Veiled  by  a  flickering  flame  of  blue  : 
I  see  my  love  as  in  a  dream  — 
Her  eyes  are  azure,  too. 

She  puts  her  hair  behind  her  ears 
(Each  little  ear  so  like  a  shell), 
Touches  her  ivory  Queen,  and  fears 
She  is   not  playing  well. 

For  me,  I  think  of  nothing  less  : 

I  think  how  those  pure  pearls  become  her- 
And  which  is  sweetest,  winter  chess 
Or  garden  strolls  in  summer. 

50 


a^ortmicr  ColIttt£. 


O  linger,  frost,  upon  the  pane  ! 

O  faint  blue  flame,  still  softly  rise  ! 
O,  dear  one,  thus  with  me  remain, 

That  I  may  watch  thine  eyes ! 


51 


Victorian  £ong£. 


A 


MULTUM  IN  PARVO. 
LITTLE  shadow  makes  the  sunrise  sad 


A  little  trouble  checks  the  race  of  joy, 
A  little  agony  may  drive  men  mad, 

A  little  madness  may  the  soul  destroy : 
Such  is  the  world's  annoy. 

Ay,  and  the  rose  is  but  a  little  flower 

Which  the  red  Queen  of  all  the  garden  is 

And  Love,  which  lasteth  but  a  little  hour, 
A  moment's  rapture  and  a  moment's  kiss, 
Is  what  no  man  would  miss. 


52 


Ctforrimcr  Collins. 


VIOLFTS  AT  HOME. 

I. 
r\    HAPPY  buds  of  violet! 

I   give  thee  to  my  sweet,  and  she 
Puts  them  where  something  sweeter  yet 
Must  always  be. 

ii. 
White  violets  find  whiter  rest: 

For  fairest  flowers  how  fair  a  fate  ! 
For  me  remain,  O  fragrant   breast  ! 
Inviolate. 


53 


Victorian  <f>cma;£. 


MY   THRUSH. 

A  LL  through  the  sultry  hours  of  June, 
From  morning  blithe  to  golden  noon, 

And  till  the  star  of  evening  climbs 
The  gray-blue  East,  a  world  too  soon, 

There  sings  a  Thrush  amid  the  limes. 


God's  poet,  hid  in  foliage  green, 
Sings  endless  songs,  himself  unseen ; 

Right  seldom  come  his  silent  times. 
Linger,  ye  summer  hours  serene  ! 

Sing  on,  dear  Thrush,  amid  the  limes. 

May  I  not  dream  God  sends  thee  there, 
Thou  mellow  angel  of  the  air, 

Even  to  rebuke  my  earthlier  rhymes 
With  music's  soul,  all  praise  and  prayer? 

Is  that  thy  lesson  in  the  limes? 


54 


CBorrimcr  ^Collins". 


Closer  to  God  art  thou  than  I  : 

His  minstrel  thou,  whoso  brown  wings  fly 

Through  silent  aether's  sunnier  climes. 
Ah,  never  may  thy  music  die  ! 

Smg  on,  dear  Thrush,  amid  the  limes  ! 


55 


DINAH   MARIA   MULOCK   CRAIK. 

1826-1887. 

TOO  LATE. 
"  Dowglas,  Doivglas,  tendir  and  treit.'1'' 

f^OULD  ye  come  back  to  me,  Douglas,  Douglas, 
In  the  old  likeness  that  I  knew, 
I  would  be  so  faithful,  so  loving,  Douglas, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 


Never  a  scornful  word  should  grieve  ye, 
I  'd  smile  on  ye  sweet  as  the  angels  do ; 

Sweet  as  your  smile  on  me  shone  ever, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 


O  to  call  back  the  days  that  are  not ! 

My  eyes  were  blinded,  your  words  were  few 
Do  you  know  the  truth  now  up  in  heaven, 

Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true? 

56 


Dnwl)  Oftaria  a^utork  Oraih. 

I  never  was  worthy  of  you,  Douglas ; 

Not  half  worthy  the  like  of  you: 
Now  all  men  beside  seem  to  me  like  shadows  — 

I  love  you,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Stretch  out  your  hand  to  me,  Douglas,  Doughs, 
Drop  forgiveness  from  heaven  like  dew ; 

As  I  lay  my  heart  on  your  dead  heart,  Douglas, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 


57 


Victorian  £oti0& 


"O 


A  SILLY  SONG. 

HEART,  my  heart !  "   she  said,  and  heard 
His  mate  the  blackbird  calling, 
While  through  the  sheen  of  the  garden  green 
May  rain  was  softly  falling, — 
Aye  softly,  softly  falling. 

The  buttercups  across  the  field 

Made  sunshine  rifts  of  splendour: 

The  round  snow-bud  of  the  thorn  in  the  wood 
Peeped  through  its  leafage  tender, 
As  the  rain  came  softly  falling. 

"  O  heart,  my  heart ! "  she  said  and  smiled, 
"  There  's  not  a  tree  of  the  valley, 

Or  a  leaf  I  wis  which  the  rain's  soft  kiss 
Freshens  in  yonder  alley, 
Where  the  drops  keep  ever  falling, — 

58 


Dinah  Ctfnrin  Ctfuloru  £raifc. 

•'  There  's  not  a  foolish  flower  i'  the  grass, 

Or  bird  through  the  woodland  calling, 

So  glad  again  of  the  coming  rain 

As  I  of  these  tears  now  falling,  — 
These  happy  tears  down  falling." 


59 


GEORGE   DARLEY. 

MAY  DAY. 
From  "  Sylvia  "  :  Act  III.  Scene  it. 

f~\   MAY,  thou  art  a  merry  time, 
^^^     Sing  hi !    the  hawthorn  pink  and  pale  ! 
When  hedge-pipes  they  begin  to  chime, 
And  summer-flowers  to  sow  the  dale. 

When  lasses  and  their  lovers  meet 
Beneath  the  early  village-thorn, 

And  to  the  sound  of  tabor  sweet 
Bid  welcome  to  the  Maying-morn  1 

O  May,  thou  art  a  merry  time, 

Sing  hi !    the  hawthorn  pink  and  pale  ! 

When  hedge-pipes  they  begin  to  chime, 
And  summer-flowers  to  sow  the  dale. 

60 


1795 -1846. 


43cortjc  SDarlep, 


When  grey-beards  and  their  gossips  come 
With  crutch  in  hand  our  sports  to  see, 

And  both  go  tottering,  tattling  home, 
Topful  of  wine  as  well  as  glee  ! 

O   May,  thou  art  a  merry  time, 

Sing  hi  !  the  hawthorn  pink  and  pale  ! 

When  hedge-pipes  they  begin  to  chime, 
And  summer-flowers  to  sow  the  dale. 

But  Youth  was  aye  the  time  for  bliss, 
So  taste  it,  Shepherds  !  while  ye  may : 

For  who  can  tell  that  joy  like  this 
Will  come  another  holiday? 

( I   May,  thou  art  a  merry  time, 

Sing  hi  !    the  hawthorn   pink  and  pale  ! 

When  hedge-pipes  they  begin  to  chime. 
And  summer-flowers  to  sow  the  dale. 


61 


Victorian  £ong£. 


I'VE  BEEN  ROAMING. 

FROM    "  LILIAN    OF  THE   VALE." 

[  'VE  been  roaming !     I  Ve  been  roaming ! 

Where  the  meadow  dew  is  sweet, 
And  like  a  queen  I  'm  coming 

With  its  pearls  upon  my  feet. 

I  've  been  roaming  !     I  've  been  roaming  ! 

O'er  red  rose  and  lily  fair, 
And  like  a  sylph  I  'm  coming 

With  their  blossoms  in  my  hair. 

I  've  been  roaming  !     I  've  been  roaming  ! 

Where  the  honeysuckle  creeps, 
And  like  a  bee  I  'm  coming 

With  its  kisses  on  my  lips. 

I  've  been  roaming  !     I  've  been  roaming  ! 

Over  hill  and  over  plain, 
And  like  a  bird  I  'm  coming 

To  my  bower  back  again  ! 

62 


Ocor0c  Dnrlcp. 


SYLVIAS  SONG. 

■"THE  streams  that  wind  amid  the  hills 
And  lost   in  pleasure  slowly  roam, 
While  their  deep  joy  the  valley  fills, — 

Even  these  will  leave  their  mountain  home  ; 
So  may  it,  Love  !    with  others  be, 
But  I  will  never  wend  from  thee. 

The  leaf  forsakes  the  parent  spray, 

The  blossom  quits  the  stem  as  fast; 
The  rose-enamour'd  bird  will  stray 
And   leave  his  eglantine  at  last: 
So  may  it,  Love  !    with  others  be, 
But  I  will  never  wend  from  thee. 


63 


Victorian  £ong£. 


SERENADE. 
From  "Sylvia":  Act  IV.  Scene  I. 

ROMANZO   SINGS  : 

A  WAKE  thee,  my  Lady-love  ! 

Wake  thee,  and  rise  ! 
The  sun  through  the  bower  peeps 
Into  thine  eyes ! 

Behold  how  the  early  lark 

Springs  from  the  corn  ! 
Hark,  hark  how  the  flower-bird 

Winds  her  wee  horn ! 

The  swallow's  glad  shriek  is  heard 

All  through  the  air ! 
The  stock-dove  is  murmuring 

Loud  as  she  dare  ! 

Apollo's  winged  bugleman 

Cannot  contain, 
But  peals  his  loud  trumpet-call 

Once  and  again  ! 

64 


<*Beorge  SDatfep. 


Then  wake  thee,  my  Lady-love, 

Bird  of  my  bower  ! 
The  sweetest  and  sleepiest 

Bird  at  this  hour  ! 


LORD    DE   TABLEY. 


W 


A  IVINTER   SKETCH. 

HEN  the  snow  begins  to  feather, 
And  the  woods  begin  to  roar 
Clashing  angry  boughs  together, 

As  the  breakers  grind  the  shore 
Nature  then  a  bankrupt  goes, 
Full  of  wreck  and  full  of  woes. 


1835- 


When  the  swan  for  warmer  forelands 
Leaves  the  sea-firth's  icebound  edge, 

When  the  gray  geese  from  the  morelands 
Cleave  the  clouds  in  noisy  wedge, 

Woodlands  stand  in  frozen  chains, 

Hung  with  ropes  of  solid  rains. 

66 


ilorD  Dc  Zablev. 


Shepherds  creep  to  byre  and  haven, 

eep   in  drifts  arc   nipped   and   numb; 
ae  belated  rook  ur  raven 
Rucks  upon  a  sign-post  dumb; 
Mere-waves,  solid  as  a  clod, 
Roar  with  skaters,  thunder-shod. 

All   the   roofs   and  chimneys   rumble  ; 

Roads   are   ridged  with   slu>h   and   sleet; 
Down  the  orchard  apples  tumble; 

Ploughboys   stamp  their   frosty   feet; 
Millers,  jolted   down   the   lanes, 
Hardly  feel  for  cold  their  reins. 

Snipes  are  calling  from  the  trenches, 
Frozen  half  and  half  at  flowj 

In  the  porches  servant  wenches 
Work  with   shovels  at   the   snow; 

Rusty   blackbirds,  weak   of  wing, 

Clean   forget   they  once   could   sing. 

i  and   boys   fetch   down   the  cattle, 
Deep  in  mire  and   powdered  pale; 


Victorian  Jwt&sL 


Spinning-wheels  commence  to  rattle ; 

Landlords  spice  the  smoking  ale. 
Hail,  white  winter,  lady  fine, 
In  a  cup  of  elder  wine  ! 


68 


lloitj  Dc  CaMep, 


THE  SECOND  MADRIGAL. 

\A/(H)  ^   lass  xvni'c   May   is  here; 
Winter  vows  are  colder. 
Have   thy  kiss  when  lips  are  near; 
To-morrow  you  are  older. 

Think,  if  clear  the  throstle   sing, 
A   month   his  note  will  thicken  ; 

A  throat  of  gold  in  a  golden  spring 
At  the  edge  of  the  snow  will  sicken. 

Take  thy  cup  and  take  thy  girl, 
"While  they  come  for  asking; 

In  thy  heydey  melt  the  pearl 
At  the  love-r.iy  basking. 

Ale  is  good  for  careless  bards, 

Wine  for  wayworn  sinners. 
They  who  hold  the  strongest  cards 

Rise  from  life  as  winners. 


C9 


AUEREY  DE  VERE. 


SONG. 


i. 


1788-1846. 


O  OFTLY,  0  midnight  Hours  ! 
Move  softly  o'er  the  bowers 
Where  lies  in  happy  sleep  a  girl  so  fair  ! 

For  ye  have  power,  men  say, 

Our  hearts  in  sleep  to  sway, 
And  cage  cold  fancies  in  a  moonlight  snare. 

Round  ivory  neck  and  arm 

Enclasp  a  separate  charm  : 
Hang  o'er  her  poised  ;  but  breathe  nor  sigh  nor  prayer : 

Silently  ye  may  smile, 

But  hold  your  breath  the  while, 
And  let  the  wind  sweep  back  your  cloudy  hair ! 

70 


3§ufcep  be  Vac. 


H. 

Bend  clown  your  glittering  urns 

Ere  yet  the  dawn  returns, 
And  star  with  dew  the  lawn   her  feet  shall  tread  ; 

Upon   the  air  rain  balm  ; 

Bid  all  the  woods  be  calm; 
Ambrosia]  dreams  with  healthful  slumbers  wed. 

That  so  the  Maiden  may 

With  smiles  your  care  repay 
When  from  her  couch  she  lifts  her  golden  head ; 

Waking  with  earliest  birds, 

Ere  yet  the  misty  herds 
Leave  warm  'mid  the  grey  grass  their  dusky  bed. 


7' 


Victorian  <f>cm0£. 


SONG. 

OEEK  not  the  tree  of  silkiest  bark 

And  balmiest  bud, 
To  carve  her  name  —  while  yet  't  is  dark  — 

Upon  the  wood ! 
The  world  is  full  of  noble  tasks 

And  wreaths  hard-won : 
Each  work  demands  strong  hearts,  strong  hands, 
Till  day  is  done. 


Sing  not  that  violet-veined  skin, 

That  cheek's  pale  roses ; 
The  lily  of  that  form  wherein 

Her  soul  reposes  ! 

Forth  to  the  fight,  true  man,  true  knight ! 
The  clash  of  arms 

Shall  more  prevail  than  whispered  tale 

To  win  her  charms. 


72 


SQu&rep  Dc  ttcrc. 


The  warrior  for  the  True,  the  Right, 

Fights  in   Ix>ve's  name  : 
The  love  that  lures  thee  from  that  fight 

Lures  thee  to  shame. 
That  love  which  lifts  the  heart,  yet  leaves 

The  spirit  free, — 
That  love,  or  none,  is  fit  for  one, 

Man-shaped  like  thee. 


73 


Victorian  Jbongtf. 


W 


SONG. 

I. 

HEN  I  was  young,  I  said  to  Sorrow, 
"  Come,  and  I  will  play  with  thee  :  "- 
He  is  near  me  now  all  day; 
And  at  night  returns  to  say, 
"  I  will  come  again  to-morrow, 
I  will  come  and  stay  with  thee." 

ii. 
Through  the  woods  we  walk  together ; 
His  soft  footsteps  rustle  nigh  me ; 
To  shield  an  unregarded  head, 
He  hath  built  a  winter  shed; 
And  all  night  in  rainy  weather, 

I  hear  his  gentle  breathings  by  me. 


74 


CHARLES   DICKENS. 


1813-1870 


THE  ll'Y   GkHCN. 

/~\H,  a  dainty  plain  is  the  Ivy  green, 
That  creepeth  o'er  ruins  old  ! 

(  »f  right  choice  food  are  his  meals   I  ween, 

In   his  cell  so  lone  and   cold. 

The  wall  must  be  crumbled,  the  stone  decayed, 

to  pie  tsure  his  dainty  whim  : 

And  the  mouldering  dust  that  years  have  made 

I     a  merry  meal  for  him. 

Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

I     it  he  stealeth  on,  though  he  wears  no  wings, 
And  a  Staunch  old   heart   has  he. 
How  closely  he  twineth,  how  tight  he  clings, 
I   1   his  friend,  the  huge   Oak   tree  1 


75 


Victorian  ^01150. 


And  slily  he  traileth  along  the  ground, 
And  his  leaves  he  gently  waves, 
As  he  joyously  hugs  and  crawleth  round 
The  rich  mould  of  dead  men's  graves. 

Creeping  where  grim  death  has  been, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

Whole  ages  have  fled,  and  their  works  decayed, 

And  nations  have  scattered  been  ; 

But  the  stout  old  Ivy  shall  never  fade 

From  its  hale  and  hearty  green. 

The  brave  old  plant  in  its  lonely  days 

Shall  fatten  upon  the  past : 

For  the  stateliest  building  man  can  raise 

Is  the  Ivy's  food  at  last. 

Creeping  on,  where  time  has  been, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 


76 


AUSTIN    DOBSON. 
THE  LADIES  OF  ST.  JAMES'S. 

A  FROTER  NEW  BALLAD  OK  THE  COUNTRY  AND  THE  TOWN, 

THK  ladies  of  St.  James's 
Go  swinging  to  the  play ; 
Their  footmen  run  before  them, 

With  a  "  Stand   by  !     Clear  the  way  !  " 
But   Phyllida,  my  Phyllida  ! 

She  takes  her  buckled  shoon, 
When  we  go  out  a-courting 
Beneath  the  harvest  moon. 


1840. 


The  ladies  of  St.  James's 
Wear  satin  on  their  ba<  k^  ; 

They  sit  all  night  at   Ombre, 
With  candles  all  of  wax  : 

77 


Victorian  Jtong.g. 


But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida  ! 

She  dons  her  russet  gown, 
And  runs  to  gather  May  dew 

Before  the  world  is  down. 

The  ladies  of  St.  James's 

They  are  so  fine  and  fair, 
You  'd  think  a  box  of  essences 

Was  broken  in  the  air : 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida  ! 

The  breath  of  heath  and  furze, 
When  breezes  blow  at  morning, 

Is  scarce  so  fresh  as  hers. 

The  ladies  of  St.  James's 

They  're  painted  to  the  eyes ; 
Their  white  it  stays  forever, 

Their  red  it  never  dies : 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida  ! 

Her  color  comes  and  goes; 
It  trembles  to  a  lily, 

It  wavers  to  a  rose. 


78 


"Hus'tiu  Dobs'on. 


The  ladies  of  St.  James's, 

With  "  Mercy  !  "  and  with  "  Lud  !  " 

They  season  all  their  speeches 

(They  come  of  noble   blood)  : 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida  ! 

Her  shy  and  simple  words 
Are  sweet  as,  after  rain-drops, 
The   music  of  the  birds. 


The  ladies  of  St.  James's, 

They  have  their  fits  and   freaks; 
They  smile  on  you  —  for  seconds, 

They  frown  on  you  —  for  weeks  : 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida  ! 

Come  either  storm  or  shine, 
From  Shrovetide  unto  Shrovetide 

Is  always  true  —  and  mine. 

My  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida  ! 

I  care  not  though  they  heap 
The  hearts  of  all  St.  James's, 

And  give  me  all  to  keep  ; 

79 


Victorian  &ong& 


I  care  not  whose  the  beauties 
Of  all  the  world  may  be, 

For  Phyllida  —  for  Phyllida 
Is  all  the  world  to  me  ! 


80 


Xustin  DoUs'on. 


THE  MILKM.4ID. 

A    NEW    SONG    TO    AN    OLD    TUNE. 

ACROSS  the  grass  I  see  her  pass; 
She  comes  with  tripping  pace, — 

A   maid    I   know,  —  and   March  winds  blow 
Her  hair  across  her  face;  — 
With  a  hey,  Dolly  !    ho,  Dolly  ! 

Dolly  shall  be  mine, 
Before  the  spray  is  white  with  May, 
Or  blooms  the  eglantine. 


The  March  winds  blow.     I  watch  her  go: 

Her  eye  is  brown  and  clear ; 
Her  cheek  is  brown  and  soft  as  down 
i  To  those  who  see   it  near!)  — 
With  a  hey,  Dolly  !    ho,  Dolly! 

Dolly  shall  be  mine, 
Before   the   spray  is  white  with    May, 
Or  blooms  the  eglantine. 

81 


Victorian  <£>ong& 


What  has  she  not  that  they  have  got, — 

The  dames  that  walk  in  silk  ! 
If  she  undo  her  'kerchief  blue, 
Her  neck  is  white  as  milk. 

With  a  hey,  Dolly  !    ho,  Dolly  ! 

Dolly  shall  be  mine, 
Before  the  spray  is  white  with  May, 
Or  blooms  the  eglantine. 

Let  those  who  will  be  proud  and  chill ! 

For  me,  from  June  to  June, 
My  Dolly's  words  are  sweet  as  curds,  — 
Her  laugh  is  like  a  tune  ;  — 
With  a  hey,  Dolly  !    ho,  Dolly ! 

Dolly  shall  be  mine, 
Before  the  spray  is  white  with  May, 
Or  blooms  the  eglantine. 

Break,  break  to  hear,  O  crocus-spear ! 

O  tall  Lent-lilies,  flame  ! 
There  '11  be  a  bride  at  Easter- tide, 

And  Dolly  is  her  name. 


"  .  /  maid  I  knou\  —  ii/nl  March   wind 
II  i    hat  ■ 


3Ciistm  Dobson. 


With  a  hey,  Dolly:    ho,  Dolly! 
Dolly  shall  be  mine, 

■e  the  spray  is  white  with  May, 
Or  blooms  the  eglantine. 


83 


ALFRED   DOMETT. 


A  GLEE  FOT{   IV1NTER. 


1811-1887 


TJ  ENCE,  rude  Winter  !  crabbed  old  fellow, 
Never  merry,  never  mellow  ! 
Well-a-day  !    in  rain  and  snow 
What  will  keep  one's  heart  aglow? 
Groups  of  kinsmen,  old  and  young, 
Oldest  they  old  friends  among  ! 
Groups  of  friends,  so  old  and  true, 
That  they  seem  our  kinsmen  too  ! 
These  all  merry  all  together, 
Charm  away  chill  Winter  weather  ! 


What  will  kill  this  dull  old  fellow? 

Ale  that 's  bright,  and  wine  that 's  mellow  ! 

Dear  old  songs  for  ever  new ; 

Some  true  love,  and  laughter  too ; 

84 


Xlfrco  Domett. 


Pleasant  wit,  and  harmless  fun, 
And  a  dance  when  day  is  done  ! 
Music — friends  so  true  and  tried  — 
Whispered  love  by  warm  fireside  — 
Mirth  at  all  times  all  together  — 
Make  sweet   May  of  Winter  weather  ! 


*5 


Victorian  £ong£. 


A  KISS. 


SAPPHO   TO    PHAON. 


QWEET  mouth  !    O  let  me  take 

One  draught  from  that  delicious  cup  ! 
The  hot  Sahara-thirst  to  slake 
That  burns  me  up  ! 


n. 

Sweet  breath  !  —  all  flowers  that  are, 
Within  that  dirling  frame  must  bloom; 
My  heart  revives  so  at  the  rare 
Divine  perfume  ! 

in. 
—  Nay,  'tis  a  dear^deceit, 
A  drunkard's  cup  that  mouth  of  thine  ; 
Sure  poison- flowers  are  breathing,  sweet, 
That  fragrance  fine  ! 

86 


Xlfrco  Domett. 


IV. 

I   drank  —  the  drink  betrayed  me 
Into  a  madder,  fiercer  fever; 

The  scent  of  those  love-blossoms  made  me 
More  faint  than  ever  ! 


Yet  though  quick  death  it  were 
That  rich  heart-vintage  I  must  drain, 
And  quaff  that  hidden  garden's  air, 
Again  —  again  ! 


87 


LADY   DUFFERIN. 


SONG* 


1807-1867. 


April  30,  1833. 


"\  \7  HEN  another's  voice  thou  hearest, 
With  a  sad  and  gentle  tone, 
Let  its  sound  but  waken,  dearest, 

Memory  of  my  love  alone  ! 
When  in  stranger  lands  thou  meetest 

Warm,  true  hearts,  which  welcome  thee, 
Let  each  friendly  look  thou  greetest 
Seem  a  message,  Love,  from  me  ! 

*  These  lines  were  written  to  the  author's  husband,  then  at  sea,  in  1833, 
and  set  to  music  by  herself. 


88 


Xa&p  Duff  am 


ii. 

When  night's  quiet  sky  is  o'er  thee, 

When  the  pale  stars  dimly  burn, 
1  >ream  that  one  is  watching  for  thee, 

Who  but  lives  for  thy  return  ! 
Wheresoe'er  thy  steps  are  roving, 

Night  or  day,  by  land  or  sea, 
Think  of  her,  whose  life  of  loving 

Is  but  one  long  thought  of  thee  ! 


89 


Victorian  <§on0£. 


LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT. 

T  'M  sitting  on  the  stile,  Mary, 

Where  we  sat,  side  by  side, 
That  bright  May  morning  long  ago 

When  first  you  were  my  bride. 
The  corn  was  springing  fresh  and  green, 

The  lark  sang  loud  and  high, 
The  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 

The  love-light  in  your  eye. 

The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary, 

The  day  is  bright  as  then, 
The  lark's  loud  song  is  in  my  ear, 

The  corn  is  green  again  ; 
But  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand, 

Your  breath  warm  on  my  cheek, 
And  I  still  keep  list'ning  for  the  words 

You  never  more  may  speak. 


90 


lafcp  Duffcrin. 


'  1'  is  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane, 

The  little  Church   stands  near  — 
The  Church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary, 

1   see  the  spire   from  here  ; 
But  the  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary,- 

My  step  might  break  your  rest, — ■ 
Where  you,  my  darling,  lie  asleep 

With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I  'm  very  lonely  now,  Mary, — 

The  poor  make  no  new  friends;  — 
But,  oh  !   they  love  the  better  still 

The  few  our  Father  sends. 
And  you  were  all  I  had,  Mary, 

My  blessing  and   my  pride; 
There  's  nothing  left  to  care  for  now 

Since   my  poor  Mary  died. 


Yours  was  the  good   brave  heart,  Mary 
That  .still  kept  hoping  on, 

When  trust   in   Cud   had   left  my  soul, 

And  half  my  strength  was  gone. 

9i 


Victorian  J>ong£, 


There  was  comfort  ever  on  your  lip, 
And  the  kind  look  on  your  brow. 

I  bless  you,  Mary,  for  that  same, 
Though  you  can't  hear  me  now. 

I  thank  you  for  the  patient  smile 

When  your  heart  was  fit  to  break ; 
When  the  hunger  pain  was  gnawing  there 

You  hid  it  for  my  sake. 
I  bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word 

When  your  heart  was  sad  and  sore. 
Oh  !  I  'm  thankful  you  are  gone,  Mary, 

Where  grief  can't  reach  you  more  ! 

I  'm  bidding  you  a  long  farewell, 

My  Mary  —  kind  and  true  ! 
But  I  '11  not  forget  you,  darling, 

In  the  land  I  'm  going  to. 
They  say  there  's  bread  and  work  for  all, 

And  the  sun  shines  always  there; 
But  I  '11  not  forget  old  Ireland, 

Were  it  fifty  times  as  fair. 


92 


Xafcp  Duffcrin. 


And  when  amid   those   grand   old  woods 

I   sit    and   shut   my  eves. 
My  heart  will  travel  back  again 

To  where  my  Mary  lies  : 
I    11   think  I   see  the  little  stile 

Where  we  sat,  side  by  side,  — 
And   the  springing  corn   and   bright    May  mom, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride. 


93 


MICHAEL   FIELD. 

WINDS   TO-DAY  ARE  LARGE  AND   FREE. 

Y\  7INDS  to-day  are  large  and  free, 
Winds  to-day  are  westerly ; 
From  the  land  they  seem  to  blow 
Whence  the  sap  begins  to  flow 
And  the  dimpled  light  to  spread, 
From  the  country  of  the  dead. 

Ah,  it  is  a  wild,  sweet  land 

Where  the  coming  May  is  planned, 

Where  such  influences  throb 

As  our  frosts  can  never  rob 

Of  their  triumph,  when  they  bound 

Through  the  tree  and  from  the  ground. 


94 


Ctftchacl  f-idD. 


Great  within  me  is  my  soul, 

Great  to  journey  to   its  goal, 

To   the  country  of  the  dead  ; 

For  the  cornel-tips  arc   red, 

And  a  passion  rich  in  strife 

Drives  me  toward  the  home  of  life. 

Oh,  to  keep  the  spring  with  them 
Who  have  flushed  the  cornel-stem, 
Who  imagine  at  its  source 
All  the  year's  delicious  course, 
Then  express  by  wind  and  light 
Something  of  their  rapture's  height  ! 


95 


Victorian  c§ong& 


LET  US  WREATHE  THE  MIGHTY  CUP. 

ET  us  wreathe  the  mighty  cup, 
Then  with  song  we  '11  lift  it  up, 
And,  before  we  drain  the  glow 
Of  the  juice  that  foams  below 
Flowers  and  cool  leaves  round  the  brim, 
Let  us  swell  the  praise  of  him 
Who  is  tyrant  of  the  heart, 
Cupid  with  his  flaming  dart ! 

Pride  before  his  face  is  bowed, 
Strength  and  heedless  beauty  cowed ; 
Underneath  his  fatal  wings 
Bend  discrowned  the  heads  of  kings ; 
Maidens  blanch  beneath  his  eye 
And  its  laughing  mastery ; 
Through  each  land  his  arrows  sound, 
By  his  fetters  all  are  bound. 


96 


CBirlnicl  jMclD. 


WHERE  WINDS  ABOUND. 

\17IIKRK  winds  abound, 
And  fields  are  hilly, 
Shy  daffodilly 
Locks  down  on  the  ground. 

Rose  cones  of  larch 
Are  just  beginning ; 
Though  oaks  are  spinning 
No  oak-leaves  in  March. 

Spring  's  at  the  core, 
The  boughs  are  sappy  : 
Good  to  be  happy 
So  long,  long  before  ! 


97 


NORMAN   GALE. 

A  SONG. 

CIRST  the  fine,  faint,  dreamy  motion 
Of  the  tender  blood 
Circling  in  the  veins  of  children  — 
This  is  Life,  the  bud. 

Next  the  fresh,  advancing  beauty 

Growing  from  the  gloom, 
Waking  eyes  and  fuller  bosom  — 

This  is  Life,  the  bloom. 


1862 


Then  the  pain  that  follows  after, 

Grievous  to  be  borne, 
Pricking,  steeped  in  subtle  poison 

This  is  Love,  the  thorn. 

98 


potman  sOalc. 


SONG. 

117 AIT  but  a  little  while  — 

The  bird  will  bring 
A  heart  in  tune  for  melodies 

Unto  the  spring, 
Till  he  who  's  in  the  cedar  there 
Is  moved  to  trill  a  song  so  rare, 
And  pipe  her  fair. 

Wait  but  a  little  while  — 

The  bud  will  break ; 
The  inner  rose  will  ope  and  glow 

For  summer's  sake  ; 
Fond  bees  will  lodge  within  her  breast 
Till  she  herself  is  plucked  and  prest 
Where  I  would  rest. 

Wait  but  a  little  while  — 
The  maid  will  grow 

99 


Victorian  £ong& 


Gracious  with  lips  and  hands  to  thee, 

With  breast  of  snow. 
To-day  Love  's  mute,  but  time  hath  sown 
A  soul  in  her  to  match  thine  own, 
Though  yet  ungrown. 


ioo 


ED. \\ I'M)   GOSSE. 

SONG  FOR    TUB  LUTE. 

BRING  a  garland  for  your  head 
Of  blossoms  fresh  and  fair  ; 
My  own  hands  wound  their  white  and  red 

To  ring  about  your  hair : 
Here  is  a  lily,  here  a  rose, 
A  warm  narcissus  that  scarce  blows, 
And  fairer  blossoms  no  man  knows. 

So  crowned  and  chapleted  with  fiowers, 

I   i>ray  you  be  not  proud  ; 
For  after  brief  and  summer  hours 

Comes  autumn  with  a  shroud  ;  — 
Though  fragrant  as  a  flower  you  lie, 
You  and  your  garland,  bye  and   bye, 
Will   fade  and   wither  up  and  die. 


1849. 


101 


THOMAS   HOOD. 


BALLAD. 


1798- 1845 


f  T  was  not  in  the  winter 

Our  loving  lot  was  cast; 
It  was  the  time  of  roses,  — 
We  plucked  them  as  we  passed  ; 

11. 

That  churlish  season  never  frowned 
On  early  lovers  yet :  — 
Oh,  no  —  the  world  was  newly  crowned 
With  flowers  when  first  we  met ! 


102 


£homa£  DooD. 


in. 

'Twas  twilight,  and  I  bade  you  go, 

But  still  you  held  me  fast ; 

It  was  the  time  of  roses, — 

We  plucked  them  as  we  passed. — 


IC3 


Victorian  =£>ong£. 


SONG. 

f~\   LADY,  leave  thy  silken  thread 
And  flowery  tapestrie  : 
There  's  living  roses  on  the  bush, 

And  blossoms  on  the  tree ; 
Stoop  where  thou  wilt,  thy  careless  hand 

Some  random  bud  will  meet ; 
Thou  canst  not  tread,  but  thou  wilt  find 
The  daisy  at  thy  feet. 


'Tis  like  the  birthday  of  the  world, 

When  earth  was  born  in  bloom ; 
The  light  is  made  of  many  dyes, 

The  air  is  all  perfume ; 
There  's  crimson  buds,  and  white  and  blue 

The  very  rainbow  showers 
Have  turned  to  blossoms  where  they  fell, 

And  sown  the  earth  with  flowers. 


104 


3$oma£  pouD. 


There  's  fairy  tulips  in  the  east, 

The  garden  of  the  sun ; 
The  very  streams  reflect  the  hues, 

And  blossom  as  they  run  : 
While  Morn  opes  like  a  crimson  rose, 

Still  wet  with  pearly  showers  ; 
Then,  Lady,  leave  the  silken  thread 

Thou  twinest  into  flowers  ! 


105 


Victorian  £»ono;£. 


/  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBEP. 

T   REMEMBER,  I  remember, 

The  house  where  I  was  born, 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 
Came  peeping  in  at  morn ; 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 
Nor  brought  too  long  a  day, 
But  now,  I  often  wish  the  night 
Had  borne  my  breath  away  ! 

I  remember,  I  remember, 
The  roses,  red  and  white, 
The  vi'lets,  and  the  lily- cups, 
Those  flowers  made  of  light ! 
The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 
And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birthday, — 
The  tree  is  living  yet ! 

1 06 


£l)oma$  poon. 


I  remember,  I  remember 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing, 

And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing; 

My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then, 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 

And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow  ! 

I   remember,  I  remember 

The  fir  trees  dark  and  high  ; 

I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

\\\re  close  against  the  sky  : 

It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now  't  is  little  joy 

To  know  I  'm  farther  off  from  heav'n 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 


•  07 


Victorian  J>ong& 


BALLAD. 

O  HE  'S  up  and  gone,  the  graceless  Girl  ! 
And  robbed  my  failing  years ; 
My  blood  before  was  thin  and  cold 
But  now  't  is  turned  to  tears ;  — 
My  shadow  falls  upon  my  grave, 

So  near  the  brink  I  stand, 
She  might  have  stayed  a  little  yet, 
And  led  me  by  the  hand  ! 


Ay,  call  her  on  the  barren  moor, 

And  call  her  on  the  hill, 
T  is  nothing  but  the  heron's  cry, 

And  plover's  answer  shrill ; 
My  child  is  flown  on  wilder  wings, 

Than  they  have  ever  spread, 
And  I  may  even  walk  a  waste 

That  widened  when  she  fled. 


'08 


Cfjomatf  l?oo&. 


Full  many  a  thankless  child  has  been, 

But  never  one  like  mine  ; 
Her  meat  was  served  on  plates  of  gold, 

Her  drink  was  rosy  wine  ; 
But  now  she  '11  share  the  robin's  food, 

And  sup  the  common  rill, 
Before  her  feet  will  turn  again 

To  meet  her  father's  will  ! 


109 


Victorian  <£>ongB\ 


SONG. 

I. 

'T'HE  stars  are  with  the  voyager 
Wherever  he  may  sail ; 
The  moon  is  constant  to  her  time  ; 

The  sun  will  never  fail ; 
But  follow,  follow  round  the  world, 

The  green  earth  and  the  sea; 
So  love  is  with  the  lover's  heart, 
Wherever  he  may  be. 

ii. 

Wherever  he  may  be,  the  stars 

Must  daily  lo^e  their  light; 
The  moon  will  veil  her  in  the  shade; 

The  sun  will  set  at  night. 
The  sun  may  set,  but  constant  love 

Will  shine  when  he  's  away ; 
So  that  dull  night  is  never  night, 

And  day  is  brighter  day. 


no 


RICHARD    MONCKTON    M1LNES   (LORD 

HOUGHTON). 

1809-1885. 

THE  BROOKSIDE. 

T   WANDERED  by  the  brook-side, 

I  wandered  by  the  mill, — 
I  could  not  hear  the  brook  flow, 

The  noisy  wheel  was  still  ; 
There  was  no  burr  of  grasshopper, 

No  chirp  of  any  bird, 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 


I  sat  beside  the  elm-tree, 

I  watched  the  long,  long,  shade, 

And  as  it  grew  still  longer, 
I  did  not  feel  afraid ; 

in 


Victorian  £ang& 


For  I  listened  for  a  footfall, 

I  listened  for  a  word, — 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

He  came  not,  —  no,  he  came  not, — 

The  night  came  on  alone, — 
The  little  stars  sat  one  by  one, 

Each  on  his  golden  throne ; 
The  evening  air  passed  by  my  cheek, 

The  leaves  above  were  stirred, — 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

Fast  silent  tears  were  flowing, 

When  something  stood  behind,  — 
A  hand  was  on  my  shoulder, 

I  knew  its  touch  was  kind : 
It  drew  me  nearer  —  nearer,  — 

We  did  not  speak  one  word, 
For  the  beating  of  our  own  hearts 

Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 


112 


by  the  brook  tide ' 


3IortJ  pougltfon. 


THE   VENETIAN  SERENADE. 

II7HEN  along  the  light  ripple   the  far  serenade 

Has  accosted  the  ear  of  each  passionate  maul 
She  may  open  the  window  that  looks  on  the  stream,  — 
She  may  smile  on   her  pillow  and  blend  it  in  dream  ; 
Half  in  words,  half  in  music,  it  pierces  the  gloom, 
"I  am  coming  —  Stall*  —  but  you  know  not  for  whom  ' 
Stali  —  not  for  whom  !  " 

Now  the  tones  become  clearer, — you    hear  more   and 

more 
How  the  water  divided  returns  on  the  oar,  — 
Does  the  prow  of  the  Gondola  strike  on  the  stair? 
Do  the  voices  and  instruments  pause  and  prepare? 
Oh  !    they  faint  on  the  ear  as  the  lamp  on  the  view, 
••  1  am  passing — Premi  —  but  I  stay  not  for  you! 
Premi  —  not  for  you!" 

Then  return  to  your  couch,  you  who  stifle  a  tear, 
Then  awake  not,  fair  sleeper  —  believe  he  is  here; 

*  The  words  here  used  are  the  calls  of  the  gondoliers,  indicating  the 
direction  they  are  rowing.     "Sciar"  is  to  stop  the  boat. 

"3 


Bictorian  £ong£. 


For  the  young  and  the  loving  no  sorrow  endures, 
If  to-day  be  another's,  —  to-morrow  is  yours  ; 
May,  the  next  time  you  listen,  your  fancy  be  true, 
"  I  am  coming  —  Sciar  —  and  for  you  and  to  you  ! 
Sciar —  and  to  you!" 


114 


3[orD  Dougfiton. 


FROM  LOVE  AND  NATURE. 

nTHK  Sun  came  through  the  frosty  mist 
Most  like  a  dead-white   moon; 
Thy  soothing  tones  I  seemed  to  list, 
As  voices  in  a  swoon. 

Still  as  an  island  stood  our  ship, 
The  watery  gave  no  sound, 
But  when  I  touched  thy  quivering  lip 
I  felt  the  world  go  round. 

We  seemed  the  only  sentient  things 
Upon  that  silent  sea : 
Our  hearts  the  only  living  springs 
Of  all  that  yet  could  be  ! 


"«; 


JEAN    1NGELOW. 
THE  LONG   WHITE  SEAM. 

A  S  I  came  round  the  harbor  buoy, 

The  lights  began  to  gleam, 
No  wave  the  land-locked  water  stirred, 

The  crags  were  white  as  cream  ; 
And  I  marked  my  love  by  candle-light 
Sewing  her  long  white  seam. 

It 's  aye  sewing  ashore,  my  dear, 

Watch  and  steer  at  sea, 
It 's  reef  and  furl,  and  haul  the  line, 
Set  sail  and  think  of  thee. 

I  climbed  to  reach  her  cottage  door; 
O  sweetly  my  love  sings  ! 

n6 


1830. 


Jean  ITnffftoU). 


Like  a  shaft  of  light  her  voice  breaks  forth, 

My  soul  to  meet  it  springs 
As  the  shining  water  leaped  of  old, 
When  stirred  by  angel  wings. 
Aye  longing  to  list  anew, 

Awake  and  in  my  dream, 
But  never  a  song  she  sang  like  this, 
Sewing  her  long  white  seam. 


*e 


Fair  tall  the  lights,  the  harbor  lights, 

That  brought  me  in  to  thee, 
And  peace  drop  down  on  that  low  roof 

For  the  sight  that   I  did  see, 
And  the  voice,  my  dear,  that  rang  so  clear 
All  for  the  love  of  me. 

For  O,  for  O,  with  brows  bent  low 
By  the  candle's  flickering  gleam, 
Her  v     Ming  gown  it  was  she  wrought, 
Sewing  the  long  white  seam. 


"7 


Victorian  ^ongtf. 


LOVE. 


u 


FROM    "SONGS    OF    SEVEN. 


T    LEANED  out  of  window,  I  smelt  the  white  clover, 

Dark,  dark  was  the  garden,  I  saw  not  the  gate  ; 
"Now,  if  there  be  footsteps,  he  comes,  my  one  lover  — 
Hush,  nightingale,  hush  !    O,  sweet  nightingale,  wait 
Till  I  listen  and  hear 
If  a  step  draweth  near, 
For  my  love  he  is  late  ! 

"The  skies  in  the  darkness  stoop  nearer  and  nearer, 

A  cluster  of  stars  hangs  like  fruit  in  the  tree, 
The  fall  of  the  water  comes  sweeter,  comes  clearer : 
To  what  art  thou  listening,  and  what  dost  thou  see? 
Let  the  star- clusters  grow, 
Let  the  sweet  waters  flow, 
And  cross  quickly  to  me. 

"  You  night   moths  that  hover  where  honey  brims  over 
From  sycamore  blossoms,  or  settle  or  sleep ; 

118 


5fcAit  ^ngcloto. 


You  glowworms,  shine  out,  and   the   pathway  discover 
To  him  that  comes  darkling  along  the  rough  steep. 
Ah,  my  sailor,  make  haste, 
For  the  time  runs  to  waste, 
And  my  love  lieth  deep  — 

'•  loo  deep  for  swift  telling  ;  and  yet,  my  one  lover, 

1  Ye  conned  thee  an  answer,  it  waits  thee  to-night." 
By  the  sycamore  passed  he,  and  through  the  white  clover, 
Then  all  the  sweet  speech  I  had  fashioned  took  flight ; 
But  I  '11  love  him  more,  more 
Than  e'er  wife  loved  before, 
Be  the  days  dark  or  bright. 


"9 


Victorian  <3>ong£. 


SWEET  IS  CHILDHOOD. 

QWEET  is  childhood  —  childhood's  over, 

Kiss  and  part. 
Sweet  is  youth  ;    but  youth  's  a  rover  — 

So  's  my  heart. 
Sweet  is  rest ;    but  by  all  showing 

Toil  is  nigh. 
We  must  go.     Alas  !    the  going, 

Say  "good-bye." 


1 20 


CHARLES   KINGSLEY. 

AIRLY  BEACON. 

A  IRLY  Beacon,  Airly  Beacon; 

Oh  the  pleasant  sight  to  see 
Shires  and  towns  from  Airly  Beacon, 
While  my  love  climbed  up  to  me  ! 

Airly  Beacon,  Airly  Beacon  ; 

Oh  the  happy  hours  we  lay 
Deep  in  fern  on  Airly  Beacon, 

Courting  through  the  summer's  day 

Airly  Beacon,  Airly  Beacon  ; 

Oh  the  weary  haunt  for  me, 
All  alone  on  Airly  Beacon, 

With  his  baby  on  my  knee  ! 

121 


1819-1875 


Victorian  £ong£. 


THE  SANDS  OF  DEE. 

"  C~\^>  Mary,  S°  an(l  ca^  tfte  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee ; " 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dark  with  foam, 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  western  tide  crept  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand, 
And  round  and  round  the  sand, 

As  far  as  eye  could  see. 
The  rolling  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land : 

And  never  home  came  she. 

"  Oh  !   is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair  — 

A  tress  of  golden  hair, 

A  drowned  maiden's  hair 
Above  the  nets  at  sea?" 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee. 

122 


Cfjadcs  ftingslcp. 


They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 

The  cruel  crawling  foam, 

The  cruel  hungry  foam, 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea  : 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee. 


123 


Victorian  £ong^ 


THREE  FISHERS   WENT  SAILING. 

'"THREE  fishers  went  sailing  away  to  the  West, 
Away  to  the  West  as  the  sun  went  down ; 
Each  thought  on  the  woman  who  loved  him  the  best, 
And  the  children  stood  watching   them    out   of  the 
town ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
And  there  's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep, 
Though  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  lighthouse  tower, 

And  they  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went  down  ; 
They  looked    at   the    squall,   and    they   looked    at    the 
shower, 
And    the    night-rack    came    rolling    up    ragged    and 
brown. 
But  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
Though  storms  be  sudden,  and  waters  deep, 
And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

124 


I    to  tlic    1 1  est 


Clarice  ftings'lcp. 


Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands 
In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went  down, 

And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wringing  their  hands 
For  those  who  will  never  come  home  to  the  town  ; 

For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 

And  the  sooner  it 's  over,  the  sooner  to  sleep  ; 
And  good-bye  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 


'25 


Victorian  ^ong^ 


A  FAREWELL 


To  C.  E.  G.—  1S56- 


/\  A  Y  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to  give  you  ; 

No  lark  could  pipe  in  skies  so  dull  and  gray ; 
Yet,  if  you  will,  one  quiet  hint  I  '11  leave  you, 
For  every  day. 

I  '11  tell  you  how  to  sing  a  clearer  carol 

Than  lark  who  hails  the  dawn  of  breezy  down ; 
To  earn  yourself  a  purer  poet's  laurel 
Than  Shakespeare's  crown. 

Be  good,  sweet  maid,  and  let  who  can  be  clever; 
Do  lovely  things,  not  dream  them,  all  day  long ; 
And  so  make  Life,  and  Death,  and  that  For  Ever, 
One  grand  sweet  song. 


T36 


WALTER  SAVAGE   LANDOR. 

ROSE  AYLMER. 

A  II,  what  avails  the  sceptered  race  ! 

Ah,  what  the  form  divine  ! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace  ! 

Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 
Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes 

May  weep,  but  never  see, 
A  night  of  memories  and  of  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 


1 775- 1 864. 


\VJ 


IDictorian  ^onggu 


RUBIES. 

f\FTEN  I   have  heard  it  said 
^>^      That  her  lips  are  ruby-red. 

Little  heed  I  what  they  say, 

I  have  seen  as  red  as  they. 

Ere  she  smiled  on  other  men, 

Real  rubies  were  they  then. 

When  she  kissed  me  once  in  play, 
Rubies  were  less  bright  than  they, 
And  less  bright  were  those  which  shone 
In  the  palace  of  the  Sun. 
Will  they  be  as  bright  again? 
Not  if  kissed  by  other  men. 


128 


XDaltcz  &abage  IlanDor. 


THE  FAULT  IS  NOT  MINE. 

"T 1 1 E  fault  is  not  mine  if  I  love  you  too  much, 
I  loved  you  too  little  too  long, 
Such  ever  your  graces,  your  tenderness  such, 
And  the  music  the  heart  gave  the  tongue. 

A  time  is  now  coming  when  Love  must  be  gone, 

Tho'  he  never  abandoned  me  yet. 
Acknowledge  our  friendship,  our  passion  disown, 

Our  follies  (ah  can  you?)  forget. 


129 


Victorian  £ong£. 


UNDER   THE  LINDENS. 

T  TNDER  the  lindens  lately  sat 

A  couple,  and  no  more,  in  chat; 
I  wondered  what  they  would  be  at 
Under  the  lindens. 

I  saw  four  eyes  and  four  lips  meet, 
I  heard  the  words,  "How  sweet/  how  sweet/" 
Had  then  the  Faeries  given  a  treat 
Under  the  lindens? 

I  pondered  long  and  could  not  tell 
What  dainty  pleased  them  both  so  well : 
Bees  !    bees  !  was  it  your  hydromel 
Under  the  lindens? 


130 


IDalrcr  &atoage  ilan&or. 


SIXTEEN. 

TN  Clementina's  artless  mien 

Lucilla  asks  me  what  I  see, — 
And  are  the  roses  of  sixteen 
Enough  for  me? 

Lucilla  asks,  if  that  be  all, 

Have  I  not  culled  as  sweet  before? 
Ah   yes,  Lucilla  !    and  their  fall 
I  still  deplore. 

I  now  behold  another  scene, 

Where  Pleasure  beams  with  heaven's  own  light,  - 
More  pure,  more  constant,  more  serene, 
And  not  less  bright : 

Faith,  on  whose  breast  the  Loves  repose, 

Whose  chain  of  flowers  no  force  can  sever, 
And  Modesty,  who,  when  she  goes, 
Is  gone  forever  ! 


«3i 


Bictorian  ^ong^. 


UNTHE. 

HANK  Heaven,  Ianthe,  once  again 
Our  hands  and  ardent  lips  shall  meet, 
And  Pleasure,  to  assert  his  reign, 

Scatter   ten  thousand   kisses  sweet : 
Then  cease  repeating  while  you  mourn, 
"I  wonder  when  he  will  return." 


T 


Ah  wherefore  should  you  so  admire 
The  flowing  words  that  fill  my  song, 

Why  call  them  artless,  yet  require 

"Some  promise  from  that  tuneful  tongue?' 

I  doubt  if  heaven  itself  could  part 

A  tuneful  tongue  and  tender  heart. 


132 


IDaltcr  &abage  ilan&or. 


ONE  LOVELY  NAME. 

f~\W\  lovely  name  adorns  my  song, 
^-^     And,  dwelling  in  the  heart, 
For  ever  falters  at  the  tongue, 
And  trembles  to  depart. 


FORSAKEN. 

IV  A  OTHER,  I  can  not  mind  my  wheel; 
My  fingers  ache,  my  lips  are  dry; 
Oh  !    if  you  felt  the  pain  I  feel ! 

But  oh,  who  ever  felt  as  I  ! 
No  longer  could  I  doubt  him  true, 

All  other  men  may  use  deceit; 
lie  always  said  my  eyes  were  blue, 
And  often  swore  my  lips  were  sweet. 


'33 


FREDERICK   LOCKER-  LAMPSON. 

1821-1895. 

A  GARDEN  LYRIC. 


The  flow  of  life  is  yet  a  rill 
That  laughs,  and  leaps,  and  glistens ; 

And  still  the  woodland  rings,  and  still 
The  old  Damoetas  listens. 

\  \  7E  have  loiter'd  and  laugh'd  in  the  flowery  croft. 

We  have  met  under  wintry  skies; 
Her  voice  is  the  dearest  voice,  and  soft 

Is  the  light  in  her  gentle  eyes ; 
It  is  bliss  in  the  silent  woods,  among 

Gay  crowds,  or  in  any  place 
To  hear  her  voice,  to  gaze  on  her  young 
Confiding  face. 


134 


d-rcDcricfi  £ocfter4Ump£cra« 

ever  may  roses  divinely  blow, 
And  wine-dark  pansies  charm 
By  the  prim  box  path  where  I  felt  the  glow 

( >f  her  dimpled,  trusting  arm, 
And  the  sweep  of  her  silk  as  she  turned  and  smiled 

A  smile  as  pure  as  her  pearls  ; 
The  breeze  was  in  love  with  the  darling  Child, 
As  it  moved  her  curls. 

She  showed  me  her  ferns  and  woodbine -sprays, 

Foxglove  and  jasmine  stars, 
A  mist  of  blue  in  the  beds,  a  blaze 

Of  red  in  the  celadon  jars : 
And  velvety  bees  in  convolvulus  bells, 

And  roses  of  bountiful  June  — 
Oh,  who  would  think  their  summer  spells 
Could  die  so  soon  ! 

For  a  glad  song  came  from  the  milking  shed, 

On  a  wind  of  the  summer  south, 
And  the  green  was  golden  above  her  head, 

And  a  sunbeam  kiss'd  her  mouth  ; 

•35 


Victorian  ^ong^. 


Sweet  were  the  lips  where  that  sunbeam  dwelt  ; 

And  the  wings  of  Time  were  fleet 
As  I  gazed;    and  neither  spoke,  for  we  felt 
Life  was  so  sweet ! 

And  the  odorous  limes  were  dim  above 
As  we  leant  on  a  drooping  bough ; 

And  the  darkling  air  was  a  breath  of  love, 
And  a  witching  thrush  sang  "  Now  ! " 

For  the  sun  dropt  low,  and  the  twilight  grew 
As  we  listen'd  and  sigh'd,  and  leant ; 

That  day  was  the  sweetest  day — and  we  knew 
What  the  sweetness  meant. 


136 


f  rcdcrich  locher-Xarap^on. 


THE  CUCKOO, 

\  \  7E  heard  it  calling,  clear  and  low, 

That  tender  April  morn ;   we  stood 
And  listened  in  the  quiet  wood, 
We  heard  it,  ay,  long  years  ago. 

It  came,  and  with  a  strange,  sweet  cry, 
A  friend,  but  from  a  far-off  land ; 
We  stood  and  listened,  hand  in  hand, 

And  heart  to  heart,  my  Love  and  I. 

In  dreamland  then  we  found  our  joy, 

And  so  it  seemed  as  't  were  the  Bird 
That  Helen  in  old  times  had  heard 

At  noon  beneath  the  oaks  of  Troy. 

O  time  far  off,  and  yet  so  near ! 

It  came  to  her  in  that  hush'd  grove, 
It  warbled  while  the  wooing  throve, 

It  sang  the  song  she  loved  to  hear. 


Victorian  Jbong£. 


And  now  I  hear  its  voice  again, 

And  still  its  message  is  of  peace, 
It  sings  of  love  that  will  not  cease- 

For  me  it  never  sings  in  vain. 


138 


j-rcDcrich  ilochcr^Ilampscm. 


A 


GERTRUDE'S  NECKLACE. 

S  Gertrude  skipt  from  babe  to  girl, 

Her  Necklace  lengthen'd,  pearl  by  pearl ; 
Year  after  year  it  grew,  and  grew, 
For  every  birthday  gave  her  two. 
Her  neck  is  lovely,  —  soft  and  fair, 
And  now  her  Necklace  glimmers  there. 


So  cradled,  let  it  fall  and  rise, 
And  all  her  graces  symbolize. 
Perchance  this  pearl,  without  a  speck, 
Once  was  as  warm  on  Sappho's  neck ; 
Where  are  the  happy,  twilight  pearls 
That  braided  Beatrice's  curls? 

[s  Gerty  loved?     Is  Gerty  loth? 
Or,  if  she's  either,  is  she  both? 
She  's  fancy  free,  but  sweeter  far 
Than  many  plighted  maidens  are: 
Will  Gerty  smile  us  all  away, 
And  still  be  Gerty?     Who  can  say? 

139 


Victorian  <£>cma;£- 


But  let  her  wear  her  Precious  Toy, 

And  I  '11  rejoice  to  see  her  joy : 

Her  bauble  's  only  one  degree 

Less  frail,  less  fugitive  than  we, 

For  time,  ere  long,  will  snap  the  skein, 

And  scatter  all  her  Pearls  again. 


140 


SAMUEL   LOVER. 


THE  ANGEL'S  WHISPER* 


1797-1868 


A     BABY  was  sleeping, 

Its  mother  was  weeping, 
For  the  husband  was  far  on  the  wild  raging  Sea ; 
And  the  tempest  was  swelling 
Round  the  fisherman's  dwelling ; 
And  she  cried,  "  Dermot  darling,  oh  come  back  to  me  !" 


Her  beads  while  she  numbered, 
The  baby  still  slumbered, 
And  smiled  in  her  face  as  she  bended  her  knee ; 

•  A  superstition  of  great  beauty  prevails  in  Ireland  that  when  a  child 
smiles  in  its  sleep  it  is  "  talking  with  angels." 

141 


Victorian  J>ong£. 


"  O  blest  be  that  warning, 
My  child  thy  sleep  adorning, 
For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  with  thee  ! 

"  And  while  they  are  keeping 

Bright  watch  o'er  thy  sleeping, 
Oh,  pray  to  them  softly,  my  baby,  with  me  ! 

And  say  thou  wouldst  rather 

They  'd  watch  o'er  thy  father ; 
For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  with  thee  !  " 

The  dawn  of  the  morning 

Saw  Dermot  returning, 
And  the  wife  wept  with  joy  her  babe's  father  to  see; 

And  closely  caressing 

Her  child,  with  a  blessing, 
Said,  "  I  knew  that  the  angels  were  whispering  with  thee  ! " 


142 


&amud  Xlobcr. 


WHAT   WILL    YOU  DO,  LOVE? 
I. 

'  \A/^ ^ '  w'^  y°u  ^°>  'ove*  w^en  * am  §°'ns 

With  white  sail  flowing, 

The  seas  beyond  — 
What  will  you  do,  love,  when  waves  divide  us, 
And  friends  may  chide  us 

For  being  fond?  " 
"Tho'  waves  divide  us  —  and  friends  be  chiding, 
In  faith  abiding, 

I  '11  still  be  true  ! 
And  I  '11  pray  for  thee  on  the  stormy  ocean, 
In  deep  devotion  — 

That 's  what  I  '11  do  !  " 

ii. 

"  What  would  you  do,  love,  if  distant  tidings 
Thy  fond  confidings 

Should  undermine?  — 


M3 


Victorian  £ongg. 


And  I  abiding  'neath  sultry  skies, 
Should  think  other  eyes 

Were  as  bright  as  thine  ?  " 
"  Oh,  name  it  not :  —  tho'  guilt  and  shame 
Were  on  thy  name 

I  'd  still  be  true  : 
But  that  heart  of  thine  —  should  another  share  it 
I  could  not  bear  it ! 

What  would  I  do?" 

in. 
"What  would  you  do,  love,  when  home  returning 
With  hopes  high  burning, 

With  wealth  for  you, 
If  my  bark,  which  bounded  o'er  foreign  foam, 
Should  be  lost  near  home  — 

Ah!  what  would  you  do?"  — 
" So  thou  wert  spared  —  I'd  bless  the  morrow, 
In  want  and  sorrow, 

That  left  me  you ; 
And  I  'd  welcome  thee  from  the  wasting  billow, 
This  heart  thy  pillow  — 

That 's  what  I  'd  do  !  " 

144 


w 


CHARLES   MACKAY. 

/  LOVE  MY  LOVE. 
I. 

HAT  is  the  meaning  of  the  song 
That  rings  so  clear  and  loud, 
Thou  nightingale  amid  the  copse  — 

Thou  lark  above  the  cloud? 
What  says  the  song,  thou  joyous  thrush, 

Up  in  the  walnut-tree? 
"  I  love  my  Love,  because  I  know 

My  Love  loves  me." 

ii. 

What  is  the  meaning  of  thy  thought, 
O  maiden  fair  and  young? 

M5 


18U-1889 


Victorian  £ong£. 


There  is  such  pleasure  in  thine  eyes, 
Such  music  on  thy  tongue  ; 

There  is  such  glory  on  thy  face  — 
What  can  the  meaning  be? 

"  I  love  my  Love,  because  I  know 
My  Love  loves  me." 

in. 

O  happy  words  !    at  Beauty's  feet 

We  sing  them  ere  our  prime ; 
And  when  the  early  summers  pass, 

And  Care  comes  on  with  Time, 
Still  be  it  ours,  in  Care's  despite, 

To  join  the  chorus  free  — 
"  I  love  my  Love,  because  I  know 

My  Love  loves  me." 


146 


Clvuics  Stpatftap. 


O    YE   TERRS' 

f~\   YE  tears  !   O  ye  tears  !   that  have  long  refused  to 

^       flow, 

Ye  are  welcome  to  my  heart,  —  thawing,  thawing,  like 

the  snow; 
I  feel  the   hard    clod    soften,  and  the  early  snow-drop 

spring, 
And  the    healing  fountains  gush,  and    the  wildernesses 

sing. 

O  ye  tears  !    O  ye  tears  !    I  am  thankful  that  ye  run ; 
Though  ye  trickle  in  the  darkness,  ye   shall   glitter  in 

the  sun. 
The  rainbow  cannot  shine  if  the  rain  refuse  to  fall, 
And  the   eyes  that  cannot  weep  are  the  saddest   eyes 

cf  all. 

0  ye  tears  !  O  ye  tears  !    till  I  felt  you  on  my  cheek, 

1  was    selfish    in    my   sorrow,   I    was    stubborn,  I    was 

weak. 

•47 


Victorian  £ong£. 


Ye   have    given   me   strength   to   conquer,  and   I   stand 

erect  and  free, 
And  know  that  I  am  human  by  the  light  of  sympathy. 

O  ye  tears  !    O  ye  tears  !    ye  relieve  me  of  my  pain  : 

The  barren  rock  of  pride  has  been  stricken  once  again  ; 

Like  the  rock  that  Moses  smote,  amid  Horeb's  burn- 
ing sand, 

It  yields  the  flowing  water  to  make  gladness  in  the 
land. 

There  is  light  upon  my  path,  there  is  sunshine  in  my 

heart, 
And  the  leaf  and  fruit  of  life  shall  not  utterly  depart. 
Ye  restore  to  me  the  freshness  and  the  bloom  of  long 

ago  — 
O  ye  tears  !  happy  tears  !   I  am  thankful  that  ye  flow  ! 


148 


FRANCIS    MAHONEY. 
THE   BELLS   OF  SHANDON. 


1805-1866. 


Sabbata  pango ; 
Funera  plango; 
Solemnia  clango. 

—  Inscription  on  an  old  bell. 

\\  7ITH  deep  affection 
And  recollection 

I  often  think     1 

Those  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would, 
In  the  days  of  childhood, 
Fling  round  my  cradle 

Their  magic  spells. 

(  to  this  I  ponder 
Where'er  I  wander, 
And  thus  grow  fonder, 
Sweet  Cork,  of  thee,  — 
149 


Victorian  £ong£. 


With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

I  've  heard  bells  chiming 
Full  many  a  clime  in, 
Tolling  sublime  in 

Cathedral  shrine, 
While  at  a  glibe  rate 
Brass  tongues  would  vibrate  ; 
But  all  their  music 

Spoke  naught  like  thine. 

For  memory,  dwelling 
On  each  proud  swelling 
Of  thy  belfry,  knelling 

Its  bold  notes  free, 
Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

150 


frantic  o^aliouc^. 


I  've  heard  bells  tolling 
OKI  Adrian's  Mole  in, 
Their  thunder  rolling 

From   the  Vatican, — • 
And  cymbals  glorious 
Swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets 

Of  Notre  Dame ; 


But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber, 

Pealing  solemnly. 
Oh  !    the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

There  's  a  bell  in  Moscow ; 
While  on  tower  and  kiosk  O 
In  St.  Sophia 

The  Turkman  gets, 

151 


Victorian  ^ong^- 


And  loud  in  air 
Calls  men  to  prayer, 
From  the  tapering  summit 
Of  tall  minarets. 

Such  empty  phantom 
I  freely  grant  them ; 
But  there  's  an  anthem 

More  dear  to  me, — 
Tis  the  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 


152 


GERALD   MASSEY. 


SONG 


1828. 


A  LL  glorious  as  the  Rainbow's  birth, 

She  came  in  Spring-tide's  golden  hours ; 
When  Heaven  went  hand-in-hand  with  Earth, 

And  May  was  crowned  with  buds  and  flowers  ! 
The  mounting  devil  at  my  heart 

Clomb  faintlier  as  my  life  did  win 
The  charmed  heaven,  she  wrought  apart, 

To  wake  its  slumbering  Angel  in  ! 
With  radiant  mien  she  trod  serene, 

And  passed  me  smiling  by  ! 
O  !   who  that  looked  could  chance  but  love? 

Not    I.  sweet   soul,  not   I. 


153 


Victorian  £ong& 


The  dewy  eyelids  of  the  Dawn 

Ne'er  oped  such  heaven  as  hers  can  show 
It  seemed  her  dear  eyes  might  have  shone 

As  jewels  in  some  starry  brow. 
Her  face  flashed  glory  like  a  shrine, 

Or  lily-bell  with  sunburst  bright ; 
Where  came  and  went  love-thoughts  divine, 

As  low  winds  walk  the  leaves  in  light : 
She  wore  her  beauty  with  the  grace 

Of  Summer's  star-clad  sky ; 
O  !  who  that  looked  could  help  but  love  ? 

Not  I,  sweet  soul,  not  I. 


Her  budding  breasts  like  fragrant  fruit 

Of  love  were  ripening  to  be  pressed  : 
Her  voice,  that  shook  my  heart's  red  root, 

Yet  might  not  break  a  babe's  soft  rest ! 
More  liquid  than  the  running  brooks, 

More  vernal  than  the  voice  of  Spring, 
When  Nightingales  are  in  their  nooks, 

And  all  the  leafy  thickets  ring. 


154 


<Ocraiti  0?a£s'rp. 


The  love  she  coyly  hid  at  heart 
Was  shyly  conscious  in  her  eye  ; 

O  !   who  that  looked  could  help  but  love? 
Not  I,  sweet  soul,  not  I. 


155 


ARTHUR  O'SHAUGHNESSY. 

A  LOVE  SYMPHONY. 

A  LONG  the  garden  ways  just  now 

I  heard  the  flowers  speak ; 
The  white  rose  told  me  of  your  brow, 

The  red  rose  of  your  cheek  ; 
The  lily  of  your  bended  head, 
The  bindweed  of  your  hair : 
Each  looked  its  loveliest  and  said 
You  were  more  fair. 


1844-1881 


I  went  into  the  wood  anon, 
And  heard  the  wild  birds  sing, 

How  sweet  you  werej    they  warbled  on, 
Piped,  trilled  the  self-same  thing. 

156 


X  r r Ijtir  O  '£{jaugfpte£ s p. 


Thrush,  blackbird,  linnet,  without  pause, 

'The  burden  did  repeat, 
And  still  began  again  because 
You  were  more  sweet. 

And  then  I  went  down  to  the  sea, 

And  heard  it  murmuring  too, 
Part  of  an  ancient  mystery, 

All  made  of  me  and  you. 
How  many  a  thousand  years  ago 

I  loved,  and  you  were  sweet  — 
Longer  I  could  not  stay,  and  so 

I  fled  back  to  your  feet. 


57 


Victorian  Jwigg. 


/  MADE  ANOTHER  GARDEN. 

T   MADE  another  garden,  yea, 

For  my  new  love ; 
I  left  the  dead  rose  where  it  lay, 

And  set  the  new  above. 
Why  did  the  summer  not  begin? 

Why  did  my  heart  not  haste? 
My  old  love  came  and  walked  therein, 

And  laid  the  garden  waste. 

She  entered  with  her  weary  smile, 

Just  as  of  old ; 
She  looked  around  a  little  while, 

And  shivered  at  the  cold. 
Her  passing  touch  was  death  to  all, 

Her  passing  look  a  blight ; 
She  made  the  white  rose-petals  fall, 

And  turned  the  red  rose  white. 

Her  pale  robe,  clinging  to  the  grass, 

Seemed  like  a  snake 
That  bit  the  grass  and  ground,  alas  ! 

And  a  sad  trail  did  make. 

158 


i  tied  /•</,  /,■  at  nil  " 


3t  rtlnir  O  '£fjaitg$ne&Gi \\ 


She  went  up  slowly  to  the  gate  ; 

And  there,  just  as  of  yore, 
She  turned  back  at  the  last  to  wait, 

And  say  farewell  once  more. 


'59 


ADELAIDE   ANNE   PROCTER, 

THE  LOST  CHORD. 

QEATED  one  day  at  the  Organ, 
I  was  weary  and  ill  at  ease, 
And  my  fingers  wandered  idly 
Over  the  noisy  keys. 

I  do  not  know  what  I  was  playing, 
Or  what  I  was  dreaming  then ; 

But  I  struck  one  chord  of  music, 
Like  the  sound  of  a  great  Amen. 


1825-18 


It  flooded  the  crimson  twilight 

Like  the  close  of  an  Angel's  Psalm, 

And  it  lay  on  my  fevered  spirit 
With  a  touch  of  infinite  calm. 

160 


Sloriaioc  3Gnw  Procter. 


It  quieted  pain  and  sorrow, 

Like  love  overcoming  strife ; 
It  seemed  the  harmonious  echo 
From  our  discordant   Life. 

It  linked  all  perplexed  meanings 

Into  one  perfect  peace, 
And  trembled  away  into  silence 

As  if  it  were  loth  to  cease. 

I  have  sought,  but  I  seek  it  vainly, 

That  one  lost  chord  divine, 
Which  came  from  the  soul  of  the  Organ, 

And  entered  into  mine. 

It  may  be  that  Death's  bright  angel 
Will  speak  in  that  chord  again, — 

It  may  be  that  only  in  Heaven 
I  shall  hear  that  grand  Amen. 


••  i 


Victorian  <£>on0£> 


SENT  TO  HEAVEN. 

T   HAD  a  Message  to  send  her, 

To  her  whom  ray  soul  loved  best; 
But  I  had  my  task  to  finish, 

And  she  was  gone  home  to  rest. 

To  rest  in  the  far  bright  heaven ; 

Oh,  so  far  away  from  here, 
It  was  vain  to  speak  to  my  darling, 

For  I  knew  she  could  not  hear ! 

I  had  a  message  to  send  her, 
So  tender,  and  true,  and  sweet, 

I  longed  for  an  Angel  to  bear  it, 
And  lay  it  down  at  her  feet. 

I  placed  it,  one  summer  evening, 
On  a  Cloudlet's  fleecy  breast; 

But  it  faded  in  golden  splendour, 
And  died  in  the  crimson  west. 

162 


3tt)dait>c  SUtme  Procter. 


I  gave  it  the  Lark  next  morning, 
And  I  watched  it  soar  and  soar; 

But  its  pinions  grew  faint  and  weary, 
And  it  fluttered  to  earth  once  more. 

To  the  heart  of  a  Rose  I  told  it ; 

And  the  perfume,  sweet  and  rare, 
Growing  faint  on  the  blue  bright  ether, 

Was  lost  in  the  balmy  air. 

I  laid  it  upon  a  Censer, 

And  I  saw  the  incense  rise ; 

But  its  clouds  of  rolling  silver 

Could  not  reach  the  far  blue  skies. 

I  cried,  in  my  passionate  longing :  — 
"  Has  the  earth  no  Angel- friend 

Who  will  carry  my  love  the  message 
That  my  heart  desires  to  send?" 

Then  I  heard  a  strain  of  music, 
So  mighty,  so  pure,  so  clear, 

That  my  very  sorrow  was  silent, 
And  my  heart  stood  still  to  hear. 

163 


Victorian  <£>ong£L 


Ami  I  felt,  in  my  soul's  deep  yearning, 
At  last  the  sure  answer  stir :  — 

"  The  music  will  go  up  to  Heaven, 
And  carry  my  thought  to  her." 

It  rose  in  harmonious  rushing 
Of  mingled  voices  and  strings, 

And  I  tenderly  laid  my  message 
On  the  Music's  outspread  wings. 

I  heard  it  float  farther  and  farther, 
In  sound  more  perfect  than  speech ; 

Farther  than  sight  can  follow, 
Farther  than  soul  can  reach. 

And  I  know  that  at  last  my  message 
Has  passed  through  the  golden  gate : 

So  my  heart  is  no  longer  restless, 
And  I  am  content  to  wait. 


164 


^ 


B.  W.  PROCTER  (BARRY   CORNWALL). 

1787-1874. 

THE  POET'S  SONG   TO  HIS  WIFE. 


SET   TG    MUSIC    BY   THE   CHEVALIER    NEUKOM.M. 

T  T  ( >W  many  Summers,  love, 
I  lave  I  been  thine? 
How  many  days,  thou  dove, 

Hast  thou  been  mine? 
Time,  like  the  winged  wind 
When  't  bends  the  flowers, 
Hath  left  no  mark  behind, 
To  count  the  hours  ! 

ae  weight  of  thought,  though  loth, 
( )n  thee  he  leaves ; 
Swine  lines  of  care  round  both 
Perhaps  he  weaves; 

165 


Victorian  ^ongsu 


Some  fears, — a  soft  regret 
For  joys  scarce  known ; 

Sweet  looks  we  half  forget ;  — 
All  else  is  flown ! 

Ah  !   with  what  thankless  heart 

I  mourn  and  sing  ! 
Look,  where  our  children  start, 

Like  sudden  Spring  ! 
With  tongues  all  sweet  and  low, 

Like  a  pleasant  rhyme, 
They  tell  how  much  I  owe 

To  thee  and  Time  ! 


166 


25.  ID.  Procter  (S&arrp  Corntoafl). 


,4  PETITION   TO   TIME. 
1831. 

"TOUCH  us  gently,  Time  ! 

Let  us  glide  adown  thy  stream 
Gently,  —  as  we  sometimes  glide 

Through  a  quiet  dream  ! 
Humble  voyagers  are  We, 
Husband,  wife,  and  children  three  — 
(One  is  lost,  —  an  angel,  fled 
To  the  azure  overhead  !) 

Touch  us  gently,  Time  ! 

We  've  not  proud  nor  soaring  wings 
Our  ambition,  our  content 

Lies  in  simple  things. 
Humble  voyagers  are  We, 
O'er  Life's  dim  unsounded  sea, 
Seeking  only  some  calm  clime  :  — 
Touch  us  gently,  gentle  Time  1 


167 


Victorian  ^ong^ 


A  BACCHANALIAN  SONG. 

SET   TO   MUSIC    BY   MR.    H.    PHILLIPS. 

OING!  — Who  sings 

To  her  who  weareth  a  hundred  rings? 
Ah,  who  is  this  lady  fine? 
The  Vine,  boys,  the  Vine  ! 
The  mother  of  mighty  Wine. 
A  roamer  is  she 
O'er  wall  and  tree, 
And  sometimes  very  good  company. 

Drink!  —  Who  drinks 
To  her  who  blusheth  and  never  thinks? 
Ah,  who  is  this  maid  of  thine  ? 
The  Grape,  boys,  the  Grape  ! 
O,  never  let  her  escape 
Until  she  be  turned  to  Wine  ! 
For  better  is  she 
Than  vine  can  be, 
And  very,  very  good  company ! 

168 


23.  10.  Procter  (23arrp  Cornwall). 

Dream  !  —  Who  dreams 

Of  the  God  that  governs  a  thousand  streams? 
Ah.  who  is  this  Spirit  fine? 
T  is  Wine,  boys,  't  is  Wine  ! 
God   Bacchus,  a  friend  of  mine. 
O  better  is  he 
Than  grape  or  tree, 
And  the  best  of  all  good  company. 


169 


Victorian  £oit0£. 


SHE  IV AS  NOT  FAIR  NOR  FULL   OF  GRACE. 

OHE  was  not  fair,  nor  full  of  grace, 

Nor  crowned  with  thought  or  aught  beside ; 
No  wealth  had  she,  of  mind  or  face, 

To  win  our  love,  or  raise  our  pride: 
No  lover's  thought  her  cheek  did  touch  ; 

No  poet's  dream  was  'round  her  thrown ; 
And  yet  we  miss  her- — ah,  too  much, 
Now  —  she  hath  flown  ! 

We  miss  her  when  the  morning  calls, 

As  one  that  mingled  in  our  mirth ; 
We  miss  her  when  the  evening  falls, — 

A  trifle  wanted  on  the  earth  ! 
Some  fancy  small  or  subtle  thought 

Is  checked  ere  to  its  blossom  grown  ; 
Some  chain  is  broken  that  we  wrought, 

Now  —  she  hath  flown! 

No  solid  good,  nor  hope  defined, 

Is  marred  now  she  hath  sunk  in  night; 

170 


23.  W.  Procter  (S&arrp  Cornwall). 


And  yet  the  strong  immortal  Mind 
Is  stopped  in  its  triumphant  flight  ! 

Stern  friend,  what  power  is  in  a  tear, 

What  strength  in  one  poor  thought  alone, 

When  all  we  know  is  —  "She  was  here," 
And— "She  hath  flown  1" 


171 


Victorian  £ong£. 


THE  SEA-KING. 

SET   TO    MUSIC    BY   THE   CHEVALIER    NEUKOMM. 

/"""^OME  sing,  Come  sing,  of  the  great  Sea-King, 
And  the  fame  that  now  hangs  o'er  him, 
Who  once  did  sweep  o'er  the  vanquish'd  deep, 

And  drove  the  world  before  him  ! 
His  deck  was  a  throne,  on  the  ocean  lone, 

And  the  sea  was  his  park  of  pleasure, 
Where  he  scattered  in  fear  the  human  deer, 
And  rested, — when  he  had  leisure! 
Come,  —  shout  and  sing 

Of  the  great  Sea-King, 
And  ride  in  the  track  he  rode  in  ! 
He  sits  at  the  head 
Of  the  mighty  dead, 
On  the  red  right  hand  of  Odin  ! 

He  sprang,  from  birth,  like  a  God  on  earth, 
And  soared  on  his  victor  pinions, 

And  he  traversed  the  sea,  as  the  eagles  flee, 
When  they  gaze  on  their  blue  dominions. 

172 


25.  ID.  Procter  (2&atrp  ComtoaU). 

His  whole  earth   life  was  a  conquering  strife, 
And  he  lived  till  his  beard  grew  hoary, 

And  he  died  at  last,  by  his  blood-red  mast, 
And  now  —  he  is  lost  in  glory! 

So,  —  shout  and  sing,  &rc. 


i73 


Bictorian  ^ong^ 


A  SERENADE. 

SET  TO    MUSIC    BY  THE    CHEVALIER   NEUKOMM. 

A  WAKE  !  —  The  starry  midnight  Hour 

Hangs  charmed,  and  pauseth  in  its  flight : 
In  its  own  sweetness  sleeps  the  flower; 
And  the  doves  lie  hushed  in  deep  delight ! 
Awake  !     Awake  ! 
Look  forth,  my  love,  for  Love's  sweet  sake  ! 

Awake  !  —  Soft  dews  will  soon  arise 

From  daisied  mead,  and  thorny  brake  ; 
Then,  Sweet,  uncloud  those  eastern  eyes, 
And  like  the  tender  morning  break ! 
Awake  !     Awake  ! 
Dawn  forth,  my  love,  for  Love's  sweet  sake  ! 

Awake  !  —  Within  the  musk-rose  bower 
I  watch,  pale  flower  of  love,  for  thee ; 
Ah,  come,  and  shew  the  starry  Hour 

What  wealth  of  love  thou  hid'st  from  me  ! 
Awake  !     Awake  ! 
Shew  all  thy  love,  for  Love's  sweet  sake  ! 

i74 


2&,  XO.  Procter  (Barrel  CorntoaU). 

Awake!  —  Ne'er  heed,  though  listening  Night 

Steal  music  from  thy  silver  voice  : 
I'm  loud  thy  beauty,  rare  and  bright, 
Ami  bid  the  world  and  me  rejoice  ! 
Awake  !     Awake  ! 
She  comes,  —  at  last,  for  Love's  sweet  sake  ! 


175 


Victorian  £oit0£. 


KING  DEATH. 

SET   TO   MUSIC    BY   THE   CHEVALIER    NEUKOMM. 

L^  ING  DEATH  was  a  rare  old  fellow  ! 
He  sate  where  no  sun  could  shine ; 
And  he  lifted  his  hand  so  yellow, 
And  poured  out  his  coal-black  wine. 

Hurrah  !    for  the  coal-black  Wine  ! 


There  came  to  him  many  a  Maiden, 

Whose  eyes  had  forgot  to  shine; 
And  Widows,  with  grief  o'erladen, 

For  a  draught  of  his  sleepy  wine. 

Hurrah  !    for  the  coal-black  Wine  ! 

The  Scholar  left  all  his  learning; 

The  Poet  his  fancied  woes ; 
And  the  Beauty  her  bloom  returning, 

As  the  beads  of  the  black  wine  rose. 

H'irr  ^  '    for  the  coal-black  Wine  ' 

176 


23.  IV.  Procter  (55arrp  <CornUMll). 

All  came  to  the  royal  old  fellow, 

Who  laughed  till  his  eyes  dropped  brine, 
As  he  gave  them  his  hand  so  yellow, 

And  pledged  them  in  Death's  black  wine. 
Hurrah  !  —  Hurrah  ! 
Hurrah  !    for  the  coal-black  Wine 


177 


Victorian  J>ong£. 


5/7  DOWN,  SAD  SOUL. 

OIT  down,  sad  soul,  and  count 
The  moments  flying : 
Come,  —  tell  the  sweet  amount 

That 's  lost  by  sighing  ! 
How  many  smiles?  —  a  score? 
Then  laugh,  and  count  no  more ; 
For  day  is  dying ! 


Lie  down,  sad  soul,  and  sleep, 
And  no  more  measure 

The  flight  of  Time,  nor  weep 
The  loss  of  leisure ; 

But  here,  by  this  lone  stream, 

Lie  down  with  us,  and  dream 
Of  starry  treasure  ! 

We  dream :    do  thou  the  same : 
We  love  —  for  ever: 

178 


23.  It).  Procter  (23arrp  <CorntoaU). 

We  laugh  ;    yet  few  we  shame, 

The  gentle,  never. 
Stay,  then,  till  Sorrow  dies ; 
Then  —  hope  and  happy  skies 
Are  thine  for  ever ! 


179 


Bictorian  £ong£. 


A  DRINKING  SONG. 

T~\RINK,  and  fill  the  night  with  mirth  ! 
Let  us  have  a  mighty  measure, 
Till  we  quite  forget  the  earth, 

And  soar  into  the  world  of  pleasure. 
Drink,  and  let  a  health  go  round, 
('Tis  the  drinker's  noble  duty,) 
To  the  eyes  that  shine  and  wound, 
To  the  mouths  that  bud  in  beauty  ! 

Here  's  to  Helen  !     Why,  ah  !   why 

Doth  she  fly  from  my  pursuing? 
Here 's  to  Marian,  cold  and  shy ! 

May  she  warm  before  thy  wooing  ! 
Here  's  to  Janet !     I  've  been  e'er, 

Boy  and  man,  her  staunch  defender, 
Always  sworn  that  she  was  fair, 

Always  known  that  she  was  tender ! 

Fill  the  deep-mouthed  glasses  high  ! 
Let  them  with  the  champagne  tremble, 

1 80 


-23.  lt\  proem*  (2£tarrp  CornUwU). 

Like  the  loose  wrack   in  the  sky, 
When  the  four  wild  winds  assemble  ! 

Here  's  to  all  the  love  on  earth, 

(Love,  the  young  man's,  wise  man's  treasure  !) 

Drink,  and  fill  your  throats  with  mirth  ! 
Drink,  and  drown  the  world  in  pleasure  ! 


.Si 


Victorian  ^ongtf. 


PEACE!    WHAT  DO   TEARS  AVAIL? 

DEACE  !  what  can  tears  avail? 

She  lies  all  dumb  and  pale, 

And  from  her  eye, 
The  spirit  of  lovely  life  is  fading, 

And  she  must  die  ! 
Why  looks  the  lover  wroth  ?   the  friend  upbraiding  ? 

Reply,  reply  ! 

Hath  she  not  dwelt  too  long 
'Midst  pain,  and  grief,  and  wrong? 

Then,  why  not  die? 
Why  suffer  again  her  doom  of  sorrow, 

And  hopeless  lie? 
Why  nurse  the  trembling  dream  until  to-morrow  ? 

Reply,  reply  ! 

Death  !   Take  her  to  thine  arms, 
In  all  her  stainless  charms, 

182 


2&.  IV.  Procter  1 25artp  Comtoall). 


And  with  her  fly 
To  heavenly  haunts,  where,  clad  in  brightness, 

The  Angels  lie  ! 
Wilt  bear  her  there,  O  Death  !   in  all  her  whiteness? 

Reply,  —  reply  ! 


r 


'33 


Victorian  Jbong^. 


THE  SEA. 

SET   TO  MUSIC    BY   THE   CHEVALIER    NEUKOMM. 

T^HE  Sea !    the  Sea  !    the  open  Sea  ! 

The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free  ! 
Without  a  mark,  without  a  bound, 
It  runneth  the  earth's  wide  regions  'round ; 
It  plays  with  the  clouds ;    it  mocks  the  skies ; 
Or  like  a  cradled  creature  lies. 

I  'm  on  the  Sea  !     I'm  on  the  Sea ! 

I  am  where  I  would  ever  be ; 

With  the  blue  above,  and  the  blue  below, 

And  silence  wheresoe'er  I  go  ; 

If  a  storm  should  come  and  awake  the  deep, 

What  matter?     7*  shall  ride  and  sleep. 

I  love  (oh  !  how  I  love)  to  ride 
On  the  fierce  foaming  bursting  tide, 
When  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon, 
Or  whistles  aloft  his  tempest  tune, 

184 


•23. ID.  Procter  (2&arrp  £orutoaU). 

And  tells  how  goeth  the  world  below, 
And  why  the  south-west  blasts  do  blow. 

I  never  was  on  the  dull  tame  shore, 
But  I  loved  the  great  Sea  more  and  more, 
And  backwards  flew  to  her  billowy  breast, 
Like  a  bird   that  seeketh  its  mother's  nest ; 
And  a  mother  she  was,  and  is  to  me  ; 
For  I  was  born  on  the  open  Sea  ! 

The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the  morn, 
In  the  noisy  hour  when  I  was  born; 
And  the  whale  it  whistled,  the  porpoise  rolled, 
And  the  dolphins  bared  their  backs  of  gold ; 
And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry  wild 
As  welcomed  to  life  the  Ocean-child  ! 

I  've  lived  since  then,  in  calm  and  strife, 
Full  fifty  summers  a  sailor's  life, 
With  wealth  to  spend  and  a  power  to  range, 
But  never  have  sought,  nor  sighed  for  change  ; 
And  Death,  whenever  he  come  to  me, 
Shall  come  on  the  wild  unbounded  Sea ! 

185 


CHRISTINA   G.  ROSSETTI. 

SONG. 

\\  7*HEN  I  am  dead,  ray  dearest, 
Sing  no  sad  songs  for  me ; 
Plant  thou  no  roses  at  my  head, 

Nor  shady  cypress-tree : 
Be  the  green  grass  above  me 

With  showers  and  devvdrops  wet ; 
And  if  thou  wilt,  remember, 
And  if  thou  wilt,  forget. 

I  shall  not  see  the  shadows, 
I  shall  not  feel  the  rain ; 

I  shall  not  hear  the  nightingale 
Sing  on,  as  if  in  pain : 

1 86 


1830-1895. 


Cljristiim  <&.  iio&sctti. 


And  dreaming  through  the  twilight 
That  doth  not  rise  nor  set, 

Haply  I  may  remember, 
And  haply  may  forget. 


187 


Victorian  £ongg. 


SONG. 

r\  ROSES  for  the  flush  of  youth, 

And  laurel  for  the  perfect  prime ; 
But  pluck  an  ivy  branch  for  me 
Grown  old  before  my  time. 

O  violets  for  the  grave  of  youth, 

And  bay  for  those  dead  in  their  prime ; 

Give  me  the  withered  leaves  I  chose 
Before  in  the  old  time. 


188 


€f)ri$tma  43.  ilo^ctti. 


SONG. 


TWO  doves  upon  the  selfsame  branch, 
Two  lilies  on  a  single  stem, 
Two  butterflies  upon  one  flower :  — 
O  happy  they  who  look  on  them. 


Who  look  upon  them  hand  in  hand 
Flushed  in  the  rosy  summer  light; 

Who  look  upon  them  hand  in  hand 
And  never  give  a  thought  to  night. 


i&9 


Victorian  J>on0£. 


THREE  SEASONS. 

"  A    CUP  for  hope  ! "  she  said, 

In  springtime  ere  the  bloom  was  old 
The  crimson  wine  was  poor  and  cold 
By  her  mouth's  richer  red. 

"  A  cup  for  love  !  "   how  low, 
How  soft  the  words;    and  all  the  while 
Her  blush  was  rippling  with  a  smile 

Like  summer  after  snow. 

"  A  cup  for  memory  !  " 
Cold  cup  that  one  must  drain  alone  : 
While  autumn  winds  are  up  and  moan 

Across  the  barren  sea. 

Hope,  memory,  love : 
Hope  for  fair  morn,  and  love  for  day, 
And  memory  for  the  evening  gray 

And  solitary  dove. 


190 


DANTE   GABRIEL   ROSSETTI. 

1828-1882. 

A  LITTLE  WHILE. 

A     LITTLE  while  a  little  love 

The  hour  yet  bears  for  thee  and  me 
Who  have  not  drawn  the  veil  to  see 
If  still  our  heaven  be  lit  above. 
Thou  merely,  at  the  day's  last  sigh, 

Hast  felt  thy  soul  prolong  the  tone; 
And  I  have  heard  the  night-wind  cry 
And  deemed  its  speech  mine  own. 

A  little  while  a  little  love 

The  scattering  autumn  hoards  for  us 

Whose  bower  is  not  yet  ruinous 
Nor  quite  unleaved  our  songless  grove. 

191 


Victorian  J>ong& 


Only  across  the  shaken  boughs 

We  hear  the  flood-tides  seek  the  sea, 
And  deep  in  both  our  hearts  they  rouse 
One  wail  for  thee  and  me. 

A  little  while  a  little  love 

May  yet  be  ours  who  have  not  said 
The  word  it  makes  our  eyes  afraid 

To  know  that  each  is  thinking  of. 

Not  yet  the  end :  be  our  lips  dumb 
In  smiles  a  little  season  yet : 

I  '11  tell  thee,  when  the  end  is  come, 
How  we  may  best  forget. 


192 


SDante  <Oabncl  no.s'gctti. 


SUDDEN  LIGHT. 

HAVE  been  here  before, 
But  when  or  how  I  cannot  tell : 
I  know  the  grass  beyond  the  door, 
The  sweet  keen  smell, 
The  sighing  sound,  the  lights  around  the  shore. 

You  have  been  mine  before, — 
How  long  ago  I  may  not  know  : 

But  just  when  at  that  swallow's  soar 
Your  neck  turned  so, 
Some  veil  did  fall,  —  I  knew  it  all  of  yore. 

Has  this  been  thus  before? 

And  shall  not  thus  time's  eddying  flight 
Still  with  our  lives  our  loves  restore 

In  death's  despite, 
And  day  and  night  yield  one  delight  once  more? 


193 


tDictoriau  §xmQ$. 


THREE  SHADOWS. 

LOOKED  and  saw  your  eyes 

In  the  shadow  of  your  hair, 
As  a  traveller  sees  the  stream 

In  the  shadow  of  the  wood ; 
And  I  said,  "  My  faint  heart  sighs, 

Ah  me  !   to  linger  there, 
To  drink  deep  and  to  dream 

In  that  sweet  solitude." 


I  looked  and  saw  your  heart 

In  the  shadow  of  your  eyes, 
As  a  seeker  sees  the  gold 

In  the  shadow  of  the  stream  ; 
And  I  said,  "  Ah,  me  !   what  art 

Should  win  the  immortal  prize, 
Whose  want  must  make  life  cold 

And  Heaven  a  hollow  dream?" 

194 


'  <-il  and  saw   yoit) 


Dante  titaftrid  ilos'sctti. 


I  looked  and  saw  your  love 

In  the  shadow  of  your  heart. 
As  a  diver  sees  the  pearl 

In  the  shadow  of  the  sea; 
And  I  murmured,  not  above 

My  breath,  but  all  apart,  — 
"Ah  !   you  can  love,  true  girl, 

And  is  your  love  for  me  ? " 


'95 


WILLIAM   BELL  SCOTT. 


PARTING  AND  MEETING  AGAIN. 


i8i2-i8go. 


AST  time  I  parted  from  my  Dear 
The  linnet  sang  from  the  briar-bush, 
The  throstle  from  the  dell ; 
The  stream  too  carolled  full  and  clear. 
It  was  the  spring-time  of  the  year, 
And  both  the  linnet  and  the  thrush 

I  love  them  well 
Since  last  I  parted  from  my  Dear. 


But  when  he  came  again  to  me 
The  barley  rustled  high  and  low, 

196 


tEtfliam  2&efll  $tott. 


Linnet  and  thrush  were  still ; 
Yellowed  the  apple  on  the  tree, 
T  was  autumn  merry  as  it  could  be, 
What  time  the  white  ships  come  and  go 

Under  the  hill; 
They  brought  him  back  again  to  me, 
Brought  him  safely  o'er  the  sea. 


197 


JOSEPH   SK1PSEY. 


A  MERRY  BEE. 


1832 


A     GOLDEN  bee  a-cometh 

O'er  the  mere,  glassy  mere, 
And  a  merry  tale  he  hummeth 
In  my  ear. 

How  he  seized  and  kist  a  blossom, 

From  its  tree,  thorny  tree, 
Plucked  and  placed  in  Annie's  bosom, 
Hums  the  bee  ! 


198 


Joseph  £>kx$$?p. 


THE  SOXGSTRESS. 

DACK  flies  my  soul  to  other  years, 

When  thou  that  charming  lay  repeatest, 
When  smiles  were  only  chased  by  tears, 
Yet  sweeter  far  than  smiles  the  sweetest. 

Thy  music  ends,  and  where  are  they? 

Those  golden  times  by  memory  cherished? 
<  >,  Syren,  sing  no  more  that  lay, 

Or  sing  till   I   like  them  have  perished  ! 


199 


Victorian  J>on0£. 


THE  VIOLET  AND   THE  ROSE. 

'"THE  Violet  invited  my  kiss, — 

I  kissed  it  and  called  it  my  bride; 
"Was  ever  one  slighted  like  this?" 

Sighed  the  Rose  as  it  stood  by  my  side. 

My  heart  ever  open  to  grief, 

To  comfort  the  fair  one  I  turned ; 

"Of  fickle  ones  thou  art  the  chief!" 

Frowned  the  Violet,  and  pouted  and  mourned. 

Then,  to  end  all  disputes,  I  entwined 
The  love-stricken  blossoms  in  one ; 

But  that  instant  their  beauty  declined, 
And  I  wept  for  the  deed  I  had  done  ! 


200 


J.  ASHBY  STERRY. 

REGRETS. 
I. 
(~~\   FOR  the  look  of  those  pure  grey  eyes- 
Seeming  to  plead  and  speak  — 
The  parted  lips  and  the  deep-drawn  sighs, 
The  blush  on  the  kissen  cheek  ! 


ii. 
O  for  the  tangle  of  soft  brown  hair, 

Lazily  blown  by  the  breeze  ; 
The  fleeting  hours  unshadowed  by  care; 

Shaded  by  tremulous  trees  ! 

in. 
O  for  the  dream  of  those  sunny  days, 

With  their  bright  unbroken  spell, 
And  the  thrilling  sweet  untutored  praise 

From  the  lips  once  loved  so  well ! 

201 


Victorian  JbongsL 


IV. 


O  for  the  feeling  of  days  agone, 
The  simple  faith  and  the  truth, 

The  spring  of  time  and  life's  rosy  dawn 
O  for  the  love  and  the  youth  ! 


202 


%  Hslilni  &terrp. 


DAISY'S  DIMPLES. 


ITTLE  dimples  so  sweet  and  soft, 
Ix)ve  the  cheek  of  my  love  : 
The  mark  of  Cupid's  dainty  hand, 
Before  he  wore  a  glove. 

ir. 

Laughing  dimples  of  tender  love 
Smile  on  my  darling's  cheek ; 

Sweet  hallowed  spots  where  kisses  lurk, 
And  play  at  hide  and  seek. 

in. 

Fain  would  I  hide  my  kisses  there 

At  morning's  rosy  light, 
To  come  and  seek  them  back  again 

In  silver  hush  of  night. 


203 


Victorian  ^ong^. 


A  LOVERS  LULLABY. 

I. 

/\  l\  IRROR  your  sweet  eyes  in  mine,  love, 

See  how  they  glitter  and  shine  ! 
Quick  fly  such  moments  divine,  love, 
Link  your  lithe  fingers  in  mine  ! 

11. 

Lay  your  soft  cheek  against  mine,  love, 
Pillow  your  head  on  my  breast ; 

While  your  brown  locks  I  entwine,  love, 
Pout  your  red  lips  when  they  're  prest ! 

in. 
Mirror  your  fate,  then,  in  mine,  love ; 

Sorrow  and  sighing  resign  : 
Life  is  too  short  to  repine,  love, 

Link  your  fair  future  in  mine  ! 


204 


ALGERNON   CHARLES   SWINBURNE. 

A   MATCH. 

I  F  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 
And  I  were  like  the  leaf, 

Our  lives  would  grow  together 

In  sad  or  singing  weather, 

Blown  fields  or  flowerful  closes, 
Green  pleasure  or  grey  grief; 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 
And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 


1837 


If  I  were  what  the  words  are, 
And  love  were  like  the  tune, 
With  double  sound  or  single 
Delight  our  lips  would  mingle, 

205 


Victorian  ^ong^ 


With  kisses  glad  as  birds  are 
That  get  sweet  rain  at  noon ; 

If  I  were  what  the  words  are, 
And  love  were  like  the  tune. 


If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 
And  I  your  love  were  death, 

We  'd  shine  and  snow  together 

Ere  March  made  sweet  the  weather 

With  daffodil  and  starling 

And  hours  of  fruitful  breath; 

If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 
And  I  your  love  were  death. 

If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 

And  I  were  page  to  joy, 
We  'd  play  for  lives  and  seasons 
With  loving  looks  and  treasons 
And  tears  of  night  and  morrow 

And  laughs  of  maid  and  boy; 
If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 
And  I  were  page  to  joy. 

206 


Xlgcrnon  €fjarie£  ^Unutmrnc. 

If  you  wore  April's  lady. 

And  I  were  lord   in   May, 
We  'd  throw  with  leaves  for  hours 
And   draw  for  days  with   flowers, 
Till  day  like  night  were  shady 

And   night  were  bright  like  day; 
If  you  were  April's  lady, 

And  I  were  lord  in  May. 

If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 

And  I  were  king  of  pain, 
We  'd  hunt  down  love  together, 
Pluck  out  his  flying-feather, 
And  teach  his  feet  a  measure, 
And  find  his  mouth  a  rein ; 
If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 
And  I  were  king  of  pain. 


207 


Bictorian  £ong£. 


RONDEL 

TV"  ISSING  her  hair  I  sat  against  her  feet, 

Wove  and  unwove  it,  wound  and  found  it  sweet ; 
Made  fast  therewith  her  hands,  drew  down  her  eyes, 
Deep  as  deep  flowers  and  dreamy  like  dim  skies ; 
With  her  own  tresses  bound  and  found  her  fair, 
Kissing  her  hair. 

Sleep  were  no  sweeter  than  her  face  to  me, 
Sleep  of  cold  sea-bloom  under  the  cold  sea; 
What  pain  could  get  between  my  face  and  hers? 
What  new  sweet   thing  would  love  not  relish  worse? 
Unless,  perhaps,  white  death  had  kissed  me  there, 
Kissing  her  hair? 


208 


Algernon  Cfjarfe£  ^Unnfcurnc. 


SONG. 

FROM    "  FELISE." 

/~\    LIPS  that  mine   have  grown  into 
Like   April's  kissing  May, 
O  fervent  eyelids  letting  through 
Those  eyes  the  greenest  of  things  blue, 
The  bluest  of  things  gray, 

If  you  were  I  and  I  were  you, 
How  could  I  love  you,  say? 
How  could  the  roseleaf  love  the  rue, 
The  day  love  nightfall  and  her  dew, 
Though  night  may  love  the  day? 


209 


ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


THE   BUGLE   SONG. 


FROM    "THE    TRINCESS. 


i8og-i8g2, 


'"THE  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story : 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
Blow,  bugle  ;   answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 


O  hark,  O  hear  !    how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going ! 


2IO 


Xlfrrti  Ctnnps'on. 


O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing  ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying: 
Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river: 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 


211 


Victorian  J>ong& 


BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK. 

DREAK,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea  ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play  ! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill; 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


212 


Xlfrcfc  atetmpgott 


TEARS,  IDLE    TEARS. 

FROM   "THE    PRINCESS." 

HTEARS,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge  ; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square ; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

2»3 


Victorian  ^ongtf. 


Dear  as  remembered  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feigned 
On  lips  that  are  for  others;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 


214 


^lfrcti  3Tetmp£on. 


SWEET   AND    LOW. 


FROM    "THE    PRINCESS.' 


s 


\\  EET  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 
Wind  of  the  western  sea  ! 
r  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

131  ow  him  again  to  me  ; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one,  sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 
Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon : 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep. 


2I5 


Victorian  J>ong£\ 


TURN,  FORTUNE,   TURN   THY   WHEEL 

FROM    "THE    MARRIAGE    OF    GERAINT." 

'""TURN,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  and  lower  the  proud  ; 
Turn    thy  wild  wheel    thro'  sunshine,  storm,  and 
cloud  ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor  hate. 

Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  with  smile  or  frown  ; 
With  that  wild  wheel  we  go  not  up  or  down ; 
Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are  great. 

Smile  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  many  lands ; 
Frown  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  our  own  hands  ; 
For  man  is  man  and  master  of  his  fate. 

Turn,  turn  thy  wheel  above  the  staring  crowd ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thou  are  shadows  in  the  cloud  ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor  hate. 


216 


3UfrcD  arrtmnson. 


VIVIEWS  SONG. 

FROM    'MERLIN    AND   VIVIEN." 

T  N  Ix>ve,  if  Love  be   1  iOve,  if  Love  be  ours, 

Faith  and  unfaith  can.  ne'er  be  equal  powers 
Unfaith  in  aught  is  want  of  faith  in  all. 

It  is  the  little  rift  within  the  lute, 
That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music  mute, 
And   ever  widening  slowly  silence  all. 

The  little  rift  within  the  lover's  lute 
Or  little  pitted  speck  in  garnered  fruit, 
That  rotting  inward  slowly  moulders  all. 

It   is  not  worth  the  keeping  :   let  it  go : 
But  shall  it  ?  answer,  darling,  answer,  no. 
And  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all. 


217 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 

1811-1863. 
AT  THE  CHURCH  GATE. 

FROM   "  PENDENNIS." 

A  LTHOUGH  I  enter  not, 
Yet  round  about  the  spot 

Ofttimes  I  hover : 
And  near  the  sacred  gate, 
With  longing  eyes  I  wait, 

Expectant  of  her. 


The  Minster  bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city's  rout, 

And  noise  and  humming : 
They  've  hushed  the  Minster  bell : 
The  organ  'gins  to  swell : 

She  's  coming,  she  's  coming  1 

3l8 


ItDilliam  £l?ahcpcacc  Cftficftetap, 

My  lady  comes  at  last, 
Timid,  and  stepping  fast, 

And  hastening  hither, 
With  modest  eyes  downcast : 
She  comes  —  she's  here  —  she's  past- 

May  heaven  go  with  her ! 

Kneel,  undisturbed,  fair  saint ! 
Pour  out  your  praise  or  plaint 

Meekly  and  duly; 
I  will  not  enter  there, 
To  sully  your  pure  prayer 

With  thoughts  unruly. 

But  suffer  me  to  pace 
Round  the  forbidden  place, 

Lingering  a  minute ; 
Like  outcast  spirits  who  wait 
And  see  through  heaven's  gate 

Angels  within  it. 


219 


Victorian  J>ong£- 


THE  MAHOGANY  TREE. 

/CHRISTMAS  is  here; 
Winds  whistle  shrill, 
Icy  and  chill, 
Little  care  we  : 
Little  we  fear 
Weather  without 
Sheltered  about 
The  Mahogany  Tree. 

Once  on  the  boughs 
Birds  of  rare  plume 
Sang,  in  its  bloom ; 
Night-birds  are   we  : 
Here  we  carouse, 
Singing  like  them, 
Perched  round  the  stem 
Of  the  jolly  old  tree. 

Here  let  us  sport, 
Boys,  as  we  sit ; 

220 


iDilliam  &$aftepeace  £liacUcrap. 

Laughter  and  wit 
Flashing  so  free. 
Life  is  but  short  — 
When  we  are  gone, 
Let  them  sing  on, 
Round  the  old  tree. 

Evenings  we  knew, 
Happy  as  this ; 
Faces  we  miss, 
Pleasant  to  see. 
Kind  hearts  and  true, 
( ientle  and  just, 
Peace  to  your  dust ! 
We  sing  round  the  tree. 

Care,  like  a  dun, 
Lurks  at  the  gate  : 
Let  the  dog  wait ; 
I  [appy  we  '11  be  ! 
Drink,  every  one ; 
Pile  up  the  coals, 
Fill   the   red   bowls, 
Round  the  old  tree. 

221 


Victorian  <£>cmg£. 


Drain  we  the  cup.  — 
Friend,  art  afraid? 
Spirits  are  laid 
In  the  Red  Sea. 
Mantle  it  up  ; 
Empty  it  yet; 
Let  us  forget, 
Round  the  old  tree. 

Sorrows,  begone  ! 
Life  and  its  ills, 
Duns  and  their  bills, 
Bid  we  to  flee. 
Come  with  the  dawn, 
Blue- devil  sprite, 
Leave  us  to-night, 
Round  the  old  tree. 


222 


w=v 


GEORGE   WALTER  THORNBURY. 


1828-1876. 


DAYRISE  AND  SUNSET. 


\  17 HEN  Spring  casts  all  her  swallows  forth 
Into  the  blue  and  lambent  air, 
When  lilacs  toss  their  purple  plumes 

And  every  cherry-tree  grows  fair, — 
Through  fields  with  morning  tints  a-glow 
I  take  my  rod  and  singing  go. 


Where  lilies  float  on  broad  green  leaves 
Below  the  ripples  of  the  mill, 

When  the  white  moth  is  hovering 
In  the  dim  sky  so  hushed  and  still, 

I  watch  beneath  the  pollard  ash 

The  greedy  trout  leap  up  and  splash. 

223 


IDictorian  d>ong£* 


Or  down  where  golden  water  flowers 
Are  wading  in  the  shallow  tide, 

While  still  the  dusk  is  tinged  with  rose 
Like  a  brown  cheek  o'erflushed  with  pride 

I  throw  the  crafty  fly  and  wait ; 

Watching  the  big  trout  eye  the  bait. 

It  is  the  lover's  twilight-time, 

And  there 's  a  magic  in  the  hour, 

But  I  forget  the  sweets  of  love 
And  all  love's  tyranny  and  power, 

And  with  my  feather-hidden  steel 

Sigh  but  to  fill  my  woven  creel. 

Then  upward  darkling  through  the  copse 
I  push  my  eager  homeward  way, 

Through  glades  of  drowsy  violets 
That  never  see  the  golden  day. 

Yes  !    while  the  night  comes  soft  and  slow 

I  take  my  rod  and  singing  go. 


224 


Ocorgc  IDaltci*  gfjorttlmrp. 


THE    THREE    TROOPERS. 


DURING   THE    PROTECTORATE. 


INTO  the   Devil  tavern 

Three  booted  troopers  strode, 
From  spur  to  feather  spotted  and  splashed 

With  the  mud  of  a  winter  road. 
In  each  of  their  cups  they  dropped  a  crust, 

And  stared  at   the  guests  with  a  frown  ; 
Then  drew  their  swords,  and  roared  for  a  toast, 

"  God  send  this  Crum-well-down  !  " 


A  blue  smoke  rose  from  their  pistol  locks, 

Their  sword  blades  were  still  wet ; 
There  were  long  red  smears  on  their  jerkins  of  buff, 

As  the  table  they  overset. 
Then  into  their  cups  they  stirred  the  crusts, 

And  cursed  old   London  town; 
They  waved  their  swords,  and  drank  with  a  stamp, 

"  God  send  this  Grum-well-down  !  " 

225 


Bictorian  £ong& 


The  'prentice  dropped  his  can  of  beer, 

The  host  turned  pale  as  a  clout; 
The  ruby  nose  of  the  toping  squires 

Grew  white  at  the  wild  men's  shout. 
Then  into  their  cups  they  flung  their  crusts, 

And  shewed  their  teeth  with  a  frown ; 
They  flashed  their  swords  as  they  gave  the  toast, 

"  God  send  this  Crum-well-down  J  " 

The  gambler  dropped  his  dog's-ear'd  cards, 

The  waiting-women  screamed, 
As  the  light  of  the  fire,  like  stains  of  blood, 

On  the  wild  men's  sabres  gleamed. 
Then  into  their  cups  they  splashed  their  crusts, 

And  cursed  the  fool  of  a  town, 
And  leapt  on  the  table,  and  roared  a  toast, 

"  God  send  this  Crum-well-down  !  " 

Till  on  a  sudden  fire-bells  rang, 

And  the  troopers  sprang  to  horse ; 
The  eldest  muttered  between  his  teeth, 

Hot  curses  —  deep  and  coarse. 

226 


<Ocorgc  Salter  €ljornlnirp. 

In  their  stirrup  cups  they  flung  the  crusts, 
And  cried  as  they  spurred  through  the  town, 

With  their  keen  swords  drawn  and  their  pistols  cocked, 
"  God  send  this  Crum-well-down  !  " 

Away  they  dashed  through  Temple  Bar, 

Their  red  cloaks  flowing  free, 
Their  scabbards  clashed,  each  back-piece  shone  — 

None  liked  to  touch  the  three. 
The  silver  cups  that  held  the  crusts 

They  flung  to  the  startled  town, 
Shouting  again,  with  a  blaze  of  swords, 

"  God  send  this  Crum-well-down  !  " 


227 


Bictorian  £ong£u 


w 


THE  CUCKOO. 

HEN  a  warm  and  scented  steam 
Rises  from  the  flowering  earth  ; 
When  the  green  leaves  are  all  still, 

And  the  song  birds  cease  their  mirth ; 
In  the  silence  before  rain 
Comes  the  cuckoo  back  again. 

When  the  Spring  is  all  but  gone  — 
Tearful  April,  laughing  May  — 

When  a  hush  comes  on  the  woods, 
And  the  sunbeams  cease  to  play ; 

In  the  silence  before  rain 

Comes  the  cuckoo  back  again. 


228 


"Baft- 


10jll|12| 


P.M. 

1J2J3141516 


SEP  2     ^ 


888?^ 


IIH 


\& 


5? 


et4ost 


Series  470 


it''  A  .1 


-«-» 


vfr 


3   1158  00170 


7073 


iiMiiMiniT.fl&!!!l,R.EGI0NAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

""ii  iiiii  inn  urn  i 


IIIUINIIInnniiill 

A  A      000  297  162 


